Or drowned in a vat of WhiteOut, or otherwise painfully executed through Death By Office Supplies.
I had four – four – essentially pointless meetings today, taking up a total of six hours. For three, there were points to be covered that could have been covered in, say, 15 minutes each. For the fourth, there was no discernable point at all, beyond allowing a supervisor-type to listen to his own voice.
Meanwhile my desk is so covered with piles of papers and projects that an archeological team may have to be assembled to unearth it. As I sat in the meeting(s), I could feel my voice-mail and e-mail filling up with messages from people who – call them crazy – thought I might actually be working. But no. Not when there’s meetings to go to!
But of course, actual work must get done – which is why I returned to Casa Jodi at 7:45 tonight, to be greeted by my dog looking at me reproachfully. Reproachfully, as if the piddle in the kitchen was my fault which, let’s face it, it was, since I left her in the house for ten hours today.
I realize this is partially my fault, since I have returned to government work and the government is at all levels filled with people who think a meeting is an accomplishment, as opposed to a means to an end. But if I ever have the power . . . man, there’s going be a lot fewer meetings, and we’re going to whip through 'em.
And the next time I’m summoned to a 7:30 a.m. meeting, if I’m not paid off by at least a damn muffin, there’ll be blood on the floor.
Have a beer? Why yes, I think I will. :: Sigh ::