Memo From Your Assistant Buy your own candy, stop rifling through
my desk, and, yeah,
guess what — I have to pee too!
One
of the editorial assistants at the Hearst magazine I work for sent out a memo
today lightly scolding people for their poor "housekeeping" skills.
Ok, our refrigerator should be condemned and it's the youngsters that have to
clean up the filth. Anyway, I took it upon myself to "edit" the memo
and just share it with the other lowly editorial assistants who found it hysterical
and suggested I send it to you.
Here it is:
Hey editors! Get off your f*ckin' high horses
and come down and smell your trash. We are your editorial assistants —
not your maids, your mothers, or your personal assistants. You make enough dough
— if you can't do it for yourself, hire someone else! We're union, so we're
putting our Parade of Shoes–clad feet down and setting a few boundaries,
you're just going to have to learn to respect:
1. Your dead plants, pigeons, and other
"wildlife" in your office are not my problem. You've been around
long enough to know: (A) plants need water and if they don't get it, they die.
Same with cut bouquets. They only last so long. And when they do die, I don't
give a shit. You have a trash can six inches from your desk. I think you can
manage. (B) We have pigeons outside the building. If you leave your window open,
they come in. Same with bees. P.S. Neither of these is fatal, so quit shrieking
when it happens.
2. Duane Reade sells candy to ANYONE —
Do not bitch if the candy jar is empty. Do not bitch if what's in there isn't
your favorite candy. Haul it ONE BLOCK east and buy the stuff yourself. We have
enough to do screening your calls, finding papers you lost, and teaching you
how to work a computer that being your "sugar dealer" to meet your
chocolate fixes is not in our job descriptions. Plus we're sick of fronting
the cash. At any given time, there's probably no more than $20 in our wallets,
so you can break that $50 and cure your own candy jones.
3. Pub Tech responds to everyone. It's
really easy to call them. And odds are the problem is something you could fix
if you would suck it up and take one training class. If you complain that "the
scroll bar moves too fast" then you are not able to have a computer without
injuring yourself and others. You get a typewriter.
4. The refrigerator does not keep things
forever. You know what you put in there. Those three bites of salad are
not worth keeping. For God's sake, pitch your stuff out or take it home to eat
later. I'm tired of my one little yogurt being surrounded by your seven containers
of three remaining bites of a $50 lunch that has been in there so long it smells
like sweat socks. Does your maid at home tolerate this?
5. Learn how things work around here.
I'm half your age, make a third of your salary, and after babysitting you for
over a year, could do your job and still have time for a manicure. The copier
is push-button, occasionally the printer does need paper, and the production
department is just down the hall. Chimps could do half this stuff.
6. I will occasionally not be at my desk.
Get off the guilt trip thing —"Oh, you weren't at your desk."
No kidding. I have to pee too. And I get a lunch hour. Respect it or buy yourself
a slave. Kathie Lee's made a second career out this.
7. I do not have ESP. Quit asking, "Did
you...?" three seconds before it's due. If you've told me to do something,
it's done. If you didn't, it wasn't. I can't read your friggin' mind to try
to figure out what you didn't do and are now going to blame me for. And if it's
after 5:30, too late. Your forgetfulness and lack of organization is not my
emergency. I'm going home to watch Survivor.
And finally:
8. My desk is not your personal playground.
Quit going through the papers on it; not all of it pertains to you. Don't
take things off of it — if it was meant for you,
I'd give it to you. And if you try staring over my shoulder while I'm on eBay
one more time, I'm going to suddenly jerk my chair backwards on its blessed
wheels and ram you in the shins.
