Why I Love My Job, Reason 142-148
"Here is my paperwork for CAC card renewal-do you take this?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, taking the paperwork from me. There is a pause, as her eyes get big. "Oh, you don't have the correct paperwork here!"
"I brought what I was told to bring."
"Oh, no, no. This is just not right," she gasped, now standing.
"OK, so what do I need?"
"You will need a copy of your passport, travel orders, and CAC card."
"OK, but I don't have that here. I'll have to come back," I say, feeling the familiar dread in the pit of my stomach that forwarns yet another simple task becoming a shit-fest right before my eyes.
The next day, I return with what I think is the proper paperwork. "Here," I say, proudly holding out the growing stack of paperwork, feeling uncomfortably like I am seeking approval.
She smiles, taking the paperwork. "Thanks." She continues to flip through the paperwork. "Oh, no. This is not right."
"What?"
"I asked for copies of your travel orders."
"They are there!"
"No, this is the blank one that everyone has."
"That is the one that is always checked!"
"No, I need the one that you came over with."
"I'm not sure I still have that one..." knowing that I probably do, but resenting the whole process and hating her more each minute.
"Check with Nancy, they can get the file."
The next day, I return again, hopeful. It doesn't take long for HR to crush all hope. "Here you go," I look at her, she slowly rises from her desk, now suspicious of me.
"No, you need a copy of your CAC card."
"It is right there," I say, pointing at the copy.
"No, you need to have a copy of both sides of it."
"You didn't tell me that."
"You should have known," she proclaims, handing back my stack of paperwork.
"How?"
She doesn't answer. I walk off, looking for a copier. As I approach, I see that in this building, I am not allowed to make my own copies. There seems to be a waiting list, with a dozen names ahead of me.
Fuck.
I come back the next day. "Here you go!"
She takes the stack. "Oh, no..."
"God."
"You don't have your address on this."
"You didn't ask for it."
"You should have known."
"Why do you need the address?"
She is suddenly defensive. "Military asks for it...see?" She holds out the completed application.
"OK, may I?" I take back one of the copies, writing in an address. "OK?"
"OK." She returns to her desk, looking through her email.
"So what do I do now?"
"You should know. I'll send you an email with the completed form."
"So all this was just for a form?"
"Yes. You'll take the form to the military, and they will process your CAC card."
"Why couldn't I just fill out the form myself?"
"Because HR fills it out for you."
"To streamline the process, I bet..."
Dodgeball today at 4PM! Everyone is invited!
I open the email. Well, at least it is no longer mandatory. There is the YES list, the MAYBE list, and the NO list. I am on the NO list.
I ask Bill, "Can you remove me from the dodgeball email list?"
"No."
"Why?"
"You are part of the team."
Fuck.
"I need to ask you two to do something," Joey asks.
"Yeah, what can we do for you?" Bob replies.
"GC says that the timesheets have to be centralized."
"No, do we have to?" I fill with dread. The old camp manager had required this. But it required us remembering to stop by another trailer to fill it out before we head to our hooch at night, a task that I consistently forgot to do. Timesheets are a unique entity. You can do almost everything, but God, don't fuck with the timesheets. We have timesheet training, timesheet refresher, advanced timesheet training, site specific timesheet training, timesheet training for the new task order. Don't fuck with the timesheets. They have to be filled out just so. A whole fleet of employees says so. A whole fleet of employees checks them. And another fleet checks them. And then government compliance checks us all. God, don't fuck with the timesheets.
Each morning, the Bosnian Ops guy would take my timesheet and hide it from me, running copies of my serious mistakes and handing it to the powers that be each morning. I was a chronic timesheet lackey. If it is with me, which it always has been (and that has worked fine), then I remember to fill it out each night. If it is across the courtyard, in a trailer I never enter, I don't remember to fill it out. God forbid. They have to be filled out EACH NIGHT, they would apoplectically announce. So every morning, I had to find the mad Bosnian timesheet police, in yet another trailer, and beg for it back, while he scolded me for not filling it in on time. "One more time and you will be written up," he would sternly say.
"Will you send me home?"
Fuck.
"Joey, if what they want is compliance, I am compliant with it right under my computer, where I have to see it every day. If I put it over there, I'll forget."
"GC says it is policy."
"No, it is not. I checked on this before. This was just someone's courtesy, and they turned it into an order. Do we have to?"
"I've been asked to have everyone do it."
"Are you asking or telling us?"
"Probably telling."
"Probably?"
"Telling."
Fuck.
"We're here to speak to you about some documents," I say cheerily.
"Documents?"
"Yes, we were here last month, and we were waiting for some documents." I hand him the forms.
"We don't have these. You'll have to see the Chief at Regional. But you won't get them. I've never seen them, and you don't need them."
"No, I don't have to see him. You are supposed to have them on site."
"What you don't seem to understand is that we are strategic partners. We don't have to give you anything. We plan out our days, and you drop by with no notice..."
"We don't have to give notice," Bob says.
"...and expect us to drop everything..."
I look around. Five men are in the kitchen drinking coffee. The Captain and another man are on the couch, doing nothing.
"Well, we were here last month, and we requested some documents. Do you have them?" I ask, trying to get this train wreck back on track.
"We don't have to give them to you. And we're not."
"You don't need to be hostile."
"Hostile. Lady..."
"Yes, I am just trying to get some information."
"You need to leave. You have no right to be here. You people don't get it. You just never get it, do you?" He is sneering now. "And you come in here, just walk right in. Who do you think you are?"
"We should go, Bob." I stand up.
"Feel free to talk to my Chief."
"His name was?" Bob asks.
"I have told you four times what his name was."
"Tell me five."
"And your name is?"
"OK, what is your name?" I ask.
"Finch. Make sure you spell it right. You can spell, right?"
"We should go, Bob."
"You can spell, right? You got it? You got my name? Make sure you write it down."
Fuck.
"What does he want on this fucking report?" I ask Bob.
"I don't know. He just sends them back for no reason. He'll never tell you."
"How am I supposed to know what to correct?"
"You can guess, then send it in again."
"I've already done that four times."
"He bounced mine back five."
"I keep asking him, but he won't tell me what is wrong with it. I don't see anything wrong. I've spent two hours guessing and sending it back and forth. Why won't he just say what the hell he wants?"
"OK, I don't get it. What do you want on this?"
"I thought that was clear just by my sending it to you. Unfortunately many people don't have the ability to read a sentence and formulate a question using the same sentence. Also unfortunately, many people think that they are perfect and like to track changes. The tag is not to be used. It doesn't go well professionally when changes are made and the others are reading the reports and the tracked change tag appears."
"I understand. Thanks. However, in one conversation, you have managed to imply that the people that work for you are: 1. Stupid 2. Illiterate 3. Arrogant 4. Unprofessional. Probably not the best thing for morale, don't you think?"
Fuck.
"DCMA meeting today," the email says. "It is your place to be there."
"My place?"
"Place of physical presence, as in; be there…"
Well, at least I know my place.
Fuck.
"Yes," she says, taking the paperwork from me. There is a pause, as her eyes get big. "Oh, you don't have the correct paperwork here!"
"I brought what I was told to bring."
"Oh, no, no. This is just not right," she gasped, now standing.
"OK, so what do I need?"
"You will need a copy of your passport, travel orders, and CAC card."
"OK, but I don't have that here. I'll have to come back," I say, feeling the familiar dread in the pit of my stomach that forwarns yet another simple task becoming a shit-fest right before my eyes.
The next day, I return with what I think is the proper paperwork. "Here," I say, proudly holding out the growing stack of paperwork, feeling uncomfortably like I am seeking approval.
She smiles, taking the paperwork. "Thanks." She continues to flip through the paperwork. "Oh, no. This is not right."
"What?"
"I asked for copies of your travel orders."
"They are there!"
"No, this is the blank one that everyone has."
"That is the one that is always checked!"
"No, I need the one that you came over with."
"I'm not sure I still have that one..." knowing that I probably do, but resenting the whole process and hating her more each minute.
"Check with Nancy, they can get the file."
The next day, I return again, hopeful. It doesn't take long for HR to crush all hope. "Here you go," I look at her, she slowly rises from her desk, now suspicious of me.
"No, you need a copy of your CAC card."
"It is right there," I say, pointing at the copy.
"No, you need to have a copy of both sides of it."
"You didn't tell me that."
"You should have known," she proclaims, handing back my stack of paperwork.
"How?"
She doesn't answer. I walk off, looking for a copier. As I approach, I see that in this building, I am not allowed to make my own copies. There seems to be a waiting list, with a dozen names ahead of me.
Fuck.
I come back the next day. "Here you go!"
She takes the stack. "Oh, no..."
"God."
"You don't have your address on this."
"You didn't ask for it."
"You should have known."
"Why do you need the address?"
She is suddenly defensive. "Military asks for it...see?" She holds out the completed application.
"OK, may I?" I take back one of the copies, writing in an address. "OK?"
"OK." She returns to her desk, looking through her email.
"So what do I do now?"
"You should know. I'll send you an email with the completed form."
"So all this was just for a form?"
"Yes. You'll take the form to the military, and they will process your CAC card."
"Why couldn't I just fill out the form myself?"
"Because HR fills it out for you."
"To streamline the process, I bet..."
Dodgeball today at 4PM! Everyone is invited!
I open the email. Well, at least it is no longer mandatory. There is the YES list, the MAYBE list, and the NO list. I am on the NO list.
I ask Bill, "Can you remove me from the dodgeball email list?"
"No."
"Why?"
"You are part of the team."
Fuck.
"I need to ask you two to do something," Joey asks.
"Yeah, what can we do for you?" Bob replies.
"GC says that the timesheets have to be centralized."
"No, do we have to?" I fill with dread. The old camp manager had required this. But it required us remembering to stop by another trailer to fill it out before we head to our hooch at night, a task that I consistently forgot to do. Timesheets are a unique entity. You can do almost everything, but God, don't fuck with the timesheets. We have timesheet training, timesheet refresher, advanced timesheet training, site specific timesheet training, timesheet training for the new task order. Don't fuck with the timesheets. They have to be filled out just so. A whole fleet of employees says so. A whole fleet of employees checks them. And another fleet checks them. And then government compliance checks us all. God, don't fuck with the timesheets.
Each morning, the Bosnian Ops guy would take my timesheet and hide it from me, running copies of my serious mistakes and handing it to the powers that be each morning. I was a chronic timesheet lackey. If it is with me, which it always has been (and that has worked fine), then I remember to fill it out each night. If it is across the courtyard, in a trailer I never enter, I don't remember to fill it out. God forbid. They have to be filled out EACH NIGHT, they would apoplectically announce. So every morning, I had to find the mad Bosnian timesheet police, in yet another trailer, and beg for it back, while he scolded me for not filling it in on time. "One more time and you will be written up," he would sternly say.
"Will you send me home?"
Fuck.
"Joey, if what they want is compliance, I am compliant with it right under my computer, where I have to see it every day. If I put it over there, I'll forget."
"GC says it is policy."
"No, it is not. I checked on this before. This was just someone's courtesy, and they turned it into an order. Do we have to?"
"I've been asked to have everyone do it."
"Are you asking or telling us?"
"Probably telling."
"Probably?"
"Telling."
Fuck.
"We're here to speak to you about some documents," I say cheerily.
"Documents?"
"Yes, we were here last month, and we were waiting for some documents." I hand him the forms.
"We don't have these. You'll have to see the Chief at Regional. But you won't get them. I've never seen them, and you don't need them."
"No, I don't have to see him. You are supposed to have them on site."
"What you don't seem to understand is that we are strategic partners. We don't have to give you anything. We plan out our days, and you drop by with no notice..."
"We don't have to give notice," Bob says.
"...and expect us to drop everything..."
I look around. Five men are in the kitchen drinking coffee. The Captain and another man are on the couch, doing nothing.
"Well, we were here last month, and we requested some documents. Do you have them?" I ask, trying to get this train wreck back on track.
"We don't have to give them to you. And we're not."
"You don't need to be hostile."
"Hostile. Lady..."
"Yes, I am just trying to get some information."
"You need to leave. You have no right to be here. You people don't get it. You just never get it, do you?" He is sneering now. "And you come in here, just walk right in. Who do you think you are?"
"We should go, Bob." I stand up.
"Feel free to talk to my Chief."
"His name was?" Bob asks.
"I have told you four times what his name was."
"Tell me five."
"And your name is?"
"OK, what is your name?" I ask.
"Finch. Make sure you spell it right. You can spell, right?"
"We should go, Bob."
"You can spell, right? You got it? You got my name? Make sure you write it down."
Fuck.
"What does he want on this fucking report?" I ask Bob.
"I don't know. He just sends them back for no reason. He'll never tell you."
"How am I supposed to know what to correct?"
"You can guess, then send it in again."
"I've already done that four times."
"He bounced mine back five."
"I keep asking him, but he won't tell me what is wrong with it. I don't see anything wrong. I've spent two hours guessing and sending it back and forth. Why won't he just say what the hell he wants?"
"OK, I don't get it. What do you want on this?"
"I thought that was clear just by my sending it to you. Unfortunately many people don't have the ability to read a sentence and formulate a question using the same sentence. Also unfortunately, many people think that they are perfect and like to track changes. The tag is not to be used. It doesn't go well professionally when changes are made and the others are reading the reports and the tracked change tag appears."
"I understand. Thanks. However, in one conversation, you have managed to imply that the people that work for you are: 1. Stupid 2. Illiterate 3. Arrogant 4. Unprofessional. Probably not the best thing for morale, don't you think?"
Fuck.
"DCMA meeting today," the email says. "It is your place to be there."
"My place?"
"Place of physical presence, as in; be there…"
Well, at least I know my place.
Fuck.
posted by akantha at 12:04 PM
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