Go Get Your God On

"Go get your god on,"said Maggie a little terse.

"Wow, that's rude," returning fire. "The problem with you is that you're not getting your way."  

"I'm just saying you've been in a bad mood all week.  Nasty too."

I do a quick flashback...traffic circle debacle with a blue haired woman too short to see over the steering wheel, another problem with the brand new freezer, OCD mumblings, but that's typical, and the really, really big one that made my hackles rise up like angel wings--mine were more of the demonic nature--the appointment with HR at the local college to finalize a substitute Library Assistant application.

Head of HR (Bad Wig because her wig was askew) is late by 10 minutes.  When she arrives after having attended a retirement party (information I learned by listening to the wagging tongues of office staff), Bad Wig tries to take care of another, but her secretary who has the foyer door open announces her 3:00--Me--is here.

"What time is it," she whispers.  My voice springs to action. "It's 3:10."

I answer without even thinking while thumbing through Modern Woman magazine.  Yes, for those who know me, this is an unusual response. I might think it, but I'm way too polite to say it out loud. I was given the title "Just too nice" at my last job. 

For some reason, I just couldn't control  myself.  I guess it's because I was having second thoughts. Did I want to waste my time with an on-call, substitute position that paid $10 an hour with a constraint of no more than 25 hours a month, about $190 once taxes are taken out.   And on top of that, I was expected to submit official transcripts from all college and post graduate schools attended including schools I transferred credits from.  That's crazy.  Besides, it's a small fortune;  I moved around a lot.  The job isn't even a real job listing, it's paid from a slush fund.

Having worked in various positions since 1978,  being on time is a sign of professionalism.  If I'm to be on time, so should Bad Wig.  I expected at least an apology and maybe an explanation, but nothing followed.  If one had been given, I'm sure things would have turned out differently.

Bad Wig invited me into her office, but the handle wouldn't turn. The door was locked; her keys were comfortably resting on the desk laughing.  After borrowing the secretary's keys, we entered her office and sat down.  Prior to arriving, I filled out the appropriate application, submitted it on-line and brought two forms of ID as requested by Bad Wig during our previous phone conversation.   The process began but was a sure fire failure. 

"What position are you applying for," she asked.

"I'm applying for a substitute position at the library"

"What's the title? Every job has a title."

"I don't know. I'm just doing what I was told.  It's a substitute position paid out of a slush fund."

"Well how did you hear about it?"

"I was asked by the Administrative Assistant to apply."

"Well we've got to know what the title is, so we can move on,  I'll have to call her."

"Do what ever you have to do. I don't have any idea because it's not listed on the job page.  Remember you had to send me a special application because there was no listing."

Bad Wig called the Administrative Assistant getting the information.

"So you are applying for the Li-bary Assistant."

Cring.  Li-bary.  Really. Head of HR and she can't pronounce "library" correctly. My brain screamed.  Seventeen years of teaching English and correcting other peoples' children's' pronunciation inflamed the situation.  This was no angelic reaction; it was more of the demonic kind".  Strike one.

"Yes, that is correct. Li-brer-e Assistant." I replied stressing the phonetic spelling.  By stressing the double "r" in library, Bad Wig"s feathers appeared ruffled.  I almost told her not to worry about the application and that I had changed my mind, but for some crazy reason, I was enjoying making her squirm. For once, I was in a position where I didn't need a job, where I didn't have to cow-tow to another human being who thought they had power over me or considered themselves smarter, because I had the power.  This was fun, so I continued.

Bad Wig pulled out a stack of forms plus a sexual harassment booklet.

"Do I have to take a sexual harassment class," I asked.  "And what's all this paperwork?

"Every one has to take a sexual harassment class eventually on-line," says Bad Wig.  "But you're only going to have to read this booklet and answer the questions.  Then of course there's the paperwork--information sheet, tax forms, etc."

I picked up the stack of papers and started perusing them.

"Is there a problem," Bad Wig asked.

"No.  But I don't ever sign anything until I know exactly what it is that I'm signing."

"Well everyone who works here has to fill these out," she said haughtily.  "This one has your name and social security information which I scan and put into your file.  The rest will also be scanned."

"What do you do with the forms that have my social security number after you scan them into my file," I ask.  Not an obtuse question.  Quite the contrary, I consider this an important question, one you can't be too careful about these days since there is so much identity theft.

Bad Wig's body language grew more tense.  Her feathers were ruffled.  Again. After pursing an answer to my question for the third time, she said--her voice an octave higher than before--"They get locked up with the other 460 some odd files."

Strike two.

"I understand you will do a criminal background check, but what about a drug check.  Do I need to get one of those too?"

"You won't be handling any bodily fluids," Bad Wig says. "That's done in another department on campus."

Of course she was talking about the nursing school, but I'm dumbfounded at the level of stupidity.  Absolutely, positively floored.  "I realize that,' I reply, "but will you be doing a drug screening?"

"Why, do I have too," asked Bad Wig, thinking I walked into a trap.

Peering down my nose and wearing that 'you've got to be kidding me' look, I grinned and said, "Apparently not."

She lost her cool and preceded with a lecture.  Blah,blah, blah.  "Everyone who works at the college must act professionally" ( Do you really want to go there--late for an appointment, no apology, a wig askew, plus chipped, peeling, or non-existent toe nail polish.  Yes, I notice almost everything.) "and treat each other nice.  You will be working as a li-bary assistant..." (There was that word again. I smiled more broadly)..."and you will be dealing with the public and handling delicate situations."  (You mean I'll be checking books in and out, shelving, and teaching students how to use the card catalog. Right. Very delicate stuff).

Strike three.  You're out!

I left her office, if you can believe it, laughing and amazed by stupid people.  The experience was exasperating yet I had fun yanking her chain.  I wasn't rude or obnoxious.   For once, I was in control of the situation, and it produced a sense of joy.  Yes, I will grant there are some of you who read this and think I'm a tad perverse but non-the-less, it was a joy-filled moment.   Empowered, I allowed myself to be me: strong, smart, sarcastic, and even a little outlandish.  I don't act this way often, so it's safe to say I'll remember this act of rebellion as a momentous occasion when I grabbed hold of joy with abandonment.

This takes me back to the beginning ..."Go get your god on."  Today's Sunday, so I did; I went to church and asked god to forgive me for giving Bad Wig such a hard time, but at the same moment, I thanked him for showing me that joy comes in mysterious ways.