Donation Drive! How My Hair Fucked Over Non-Profits

So last week I was slumped over my desk like a gunshot victim, per usual, when our department’s chief hype-man lopes up and drapes himself across my cubicle wall. I had just been considering the vast amount of time I spend spacing out at work (is thinking about the act of spacing out–spacing out?) and seeing the hype man only deepened my despondence because the only time he wants to talk to me is when he’s in mid Hype Man mode (think Flava Flav), which means team building, which means more time wasted.  Seriously.  I’m fairly certain the only reason this guy was hired was to pump up the crowd for Herr Direcktor at staff meetings. At least, I think the was the original plan, and now it’s more like limited public appearances followed by damage control (I’m thinking of Joe Biden right now). In fact, one of my first meetings with him was a nightmare: it was the two of us, and this other dude (who is really uptight but prone to clapping when amused), and we were discussing the feasibility of opening another detox facility in Seattle, and my hype-man interjects, “If those motherfuckers in Portland can do it, so can we.”

Oh.my.god.

Now, I don’t want to trash him, although I’m not sure it is considered trashing if I describe the person exactly as they are.  WE’RE JUST DOING ARE BEST, Y’ALL. And yet…   Well, let me just say that I have pretty much given up on trying to monitor my language. Even my poor, dear mother has stopped flinching when I complain about the “fucking weeds growing in my garden,” but holy shit, I would NEVER refer to someone or something as “those motherfuckers” in a motherfucking meeting in the motherfucking workplace.

Side story: so my husband Michael and I ran into one of my coworkers the other night. We naturally began commiserating about work, which included rants about The Hype Man.  Now, I have complained about this guy from day one of his hire, acting out my encounters with him for Michael with all the subtlety of a drag queen (lots of shoulders!), so I felt like Michael already had a strong grasp on his character. And yet, once we parted ways with my coworker, Michael told me he was a little surprised that her description so closely matched my description.  You see, this guy is so fucking nuts that Michael assumed my stories had been inflated (which, by the way, I’m fairly certain most people think the same thing about my dad-stories, to which I say, please read my blog THE CRYING GAME, OR, MY TRIP TO A VODKA DISTILLERY WHILE ON WEIGHT WATCHERS, specifically about my sister Hattie’s wedding. Jeez. WHEN WILL PEOPLE LEARN THAT I AM NOT PRONE TO HYPERBOLE? No one ever listens, ever, and I’m not even exaggerating). But that’s exactly it; this guy is off-the-hook crazy, and the longer he works here (i.e., is not fired), the more I suspect him of being a crazy genius, Wile E. Coyote style.  

Because, I’m telling you, how else would the guy who makes fake gang hand gestures not be fired yet?  I mean, every time I see him coming at me in the hallway, in his pink gingham shirt with the cleverly power-clashed floral tie, he bellows at me or tries to high five me (the first time I ducked, unsure of what was happening), and it feels like I‘m being raped by a frat house, AND I’M NOT EVEN EXAGGERATING. But in my heart I know that eventually Wile E. Coyote will strap on his roller skates, get into his Acme boomerang and a giant rubber band, and sail himself off a cliff. And then there’s that moment when Wile E. doesn’t realize he’s hanging in the air, so he is just suspended out there, but then he looks down, and that’s when he falls. I have to have faith that at some point, my Hype Man will look down.

I mean, this guy began his reign of tom-foolery with the institution of a March Madness bracket. We work in the field of mental health and addiction, you know, as in gambling addictions? Plus, his sports obsession creates an environment of exclusion (btw, where others would hang degrees or awards in their office, Wile E. has team pennants). Like during the World Cup. He went around to all the guys…midday… and asked if they wanted to join him at a local bar to watch the playoffs. One hundred percent a-okay.  Or, have you seen the first episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show? When Lou Grant is interviewing Mary Richards for the job of producer? And he asks about her religion, her marital status, her age, you know, basically all those things you can’t ask. And Mary balks, and this is hilarious, especially 40 years later when this would never happen. Expect at my job, when Wile E. asks me my age. I tell him, 39.  “Okay, but what month were you born?” December. “DUDE!!! I’M TWO MONTHS OLDER THAN YOU! HAHAHA! HIGH-FIVE!”  (This guy is my boss. I will follow you into battle, Sun Tzu).

ANYWAY, it seems that Wile E. has come to me because he has been tasked with the assignment of finding someone to lead the annual Donation Drive.  The Donation Drive is a push for all of us government employees to donate part of our paycheck to one of the many non-profits from the approved non-profiteers list.  And every year, there’s all this ballyhoo to get us to donate more, more, more, to top last year’s donation, so that we can adorn our websites and email footers and whatever else we produce with some banner that says that we are one of the best governmental entities in the United State, and I’m not kidding.  Really, this is on our website: that we want to be the best government ever, anywhere, the king is dead, long live the king. And so this role as the donation campaign cheerleader of the department, making sure everyone knows about the annual campaign, pressuring their coworkers to donate, guilting us all at our staff meetings by parading in front of us first a malnourished dog missing both eyes, followed by an Iraqi war vet amputee who has AIDS and lives in a tire under a bridge, so JUST OPEN YOUR FUCKING HEART AND WALLET, WHY DON’T YOU? I have led this effort for several years because I excel at clipart and poster-making, and for the most part people find me inoffensive (except last year when one woman came to my cubicle so I could watch her rip up a donation form and throw it into my recycling), and also because I’m easily guilted into doing things (“so you’re telling me that if I give you a handjob then that makes up for the fact that I have enough money to buy a taco and you don’t? Well, I guess that’s fair…”). Which is why Wile E. is here, to find out if I had just forgotten to sign up as our donation lead. 

But see, last year was kind of a bummer to do the campaign. People were being laid off, mostly because Herr Direktor had offered his friend a job that actually didn’t exist and therefore didn’t have a source for payroll, and apparently agreed to pay her more than people who had been here for 20 years and were pretty high ranking themselves, and I know this because our salaries are public knowledge and I looked. I mean, I don’t KNOW that that’s why he fired a bunch of people, and I think part of it was also so he could fire his competition (a woman who was capable of taking him down and landing his job, for example, found that her job was suddenly redundant). But seriously, this is like what happens when there’s a new mafia capofamiglia making the old guard disappear in very violent and public ways to send a message to everyone else. So, last year people just weren’t that interested in hearing about cats in need of neutering, and I got burnt out and bummed out, so no, thank you, not this year.

“But what if I said you could be co-chair for the whole department, not just our division?”

Hmm, yes, because that’s why I said no this year, because there wasn’t enough clout, and gosh I’d love some more work.   But still I struggled to say no. I’m wavering and wavering, and he says “Will you at least think about it?” and naturally I said yes, because, phew, that’s an easy non-committal way to get out of this conversation. Like any gentlemen’s agreement or honest trade between a cowboy and an indian over a horse for a bag of corn, we high five on this, despite the fact that my hand is wrapped in a brace to prevent further wrist damage from my work activities (possibly high-fiving).

The next morning, I get to work and see an Outlook invite to meet with our HR department. Naturally, I assume that I’m being fired, and I start to catalogue all the comebacks I might need during this session.

  • Yeah but, everyone shops online. (“All day?”)
  • Yeah but, I really think better with a TV show streaming in the background.
  • Yeah but, it was just a quick nap. (“All day?”)

So I “accept” the meeting, because what else can I do, but in my reply I ask the HR person, say, maybe I could have some context for this meeting? You know, so I’m PREPARED? But there’s no response (further fueling my conviction that this was to be my last day), and come three o’clock, I take one last look around my cubicle, and say a silent goodbye to my coworkers (I’ll miss you most of all, Scarecrow).

In general, I am on time for meetings, especially when I remember them, and super-especially when I’m about to be fired. It’s like a last-ditch effort to save myself. Clearly, however, HR does not feel the same, and in fact, HR struts in about three minutes late, with all of her ill-gotten power, declaring that They Will Be Even More Late because They Need to Go Potty but that I Should Sit In Their Office And Wait. Now, it’s totally appropriate to tell the pugs to “go potty,” when I pad around my backyard in my slippers and bear-themed bathrobe.  But in the workplace? No.

HR returns from “pottying,” and introduces herself, because we’ve never officially met (actually, we have, but now is not the time to correct her, when I’m about to be fired), and then she pulls out her agenda, and hands me a copy, AND IT’S A GODDAMN AGENDA OF DONATION DRIVE ACTIVITIES. In a not-quite-defeated-way, but maybe more in annoyed disbelief, I stare at her, my eyes widened, my eyebrows up, and shoulders dropped down.  And normally, I’d be like, “Bitch, you don’t own me,” and storm out, flipping over chairs and knocking shit of her desk, but that’s only because normally I’m feeling pretty “pulled together,” what with my undefeatable ass-hugging jeans and my cocky Danskos, but that was not the case this particular day.

You see, my first mistake that day was pulling a knit cap over my wet hair when I emerged from the shower in an attempt to stay warm while eating breakfast. This resulted in a flattening of my bangs to my forehead and a bonus weird crimp. So at work, I spent a good part of the day looking at myself in the mirror on my desk (it’s so I can see who is sneaking up behind me), trying to make my hair look somewhat presentable, which included using my nasty desk scissors to trim at my bangs, and then bobby-pinning my bangs first to one side, then the other, which only confused my hair into a mid-face-part, and I finally gave up and pulled my hair into a ponytail with my weird bangs, and I looked like fucking Alfalfa.

And there I am, in HR’s office, certain that Wile E. has done this on purpose, knowing that once I was cornered, I’d just give in and say yes. But still, I don’t want it to be that easy for HR, who apparently is the Chair (and soon to be Co-Chair, once I say yes) of the campaign for our department.  So, I play super-dumb, not just Columbo-dumb when I scratch my head and do the “I’m confused… ” bit.  Nope, I do a flat-out “I have NO IDEA why I am here!” (Or in the words of my dog, “Slipper? What slipper?”). To which HR exclaims, “Oh no! I was told you agreed to co-chair with me! This is voluntary, of course, but I hope you do and I was told you would but it’s voluntary and I’m in HR so I won’t bully you, I’ll just guilt you, so can we count on you?”

And because my self-confidence has been shattered by my Alfala hair, I say YES. Not a firm, decisive yes, but an “I don’t know how to get out of this” yes. HR doesn’t really seem to care one way or the other, and proceeds to run down her list of ideas for raising money, none of which are really that unusual.  And, in fact, it’s kind of standard fare: the ice cream social, the snack cart, the craft bazaar. Whatever, right? But she also has a racing competition for dogs listed (will there be OTB?). The idea is that we would bring in our dogs for the race, and maybe then also a costume contest. Except, we’d have to open it up to all pets to be fair.

“Cats and rabbits, too. Someone wanted me to let them have an office rabbit. I said no. Isn’t that weird?”

Oh, and she doesn’t want the dog events to be a distraction. “Am I crazy?” HR leans in conspiratorially. “Is this nuts?” “Just tell me if this is crazy.”

“Do you think people will be distracted?”

“Do you think people know that their pet can’t doo-doo on the carpet?”

Ok. First: Office rabbit? This tidbit is too good to not tell others but seriously, boundaries, HR, boundaries!  Will you mock me and tell others about the sexual harassment allegation I will soon file which will allow me to retire young? And then again, how fun would it be to work with a loose-lipped HR person in the know!  And doo-doo? COME ON.  But also, do you really want to know if you are crazy? Like, wacky-funny crazy? Because no, you aren’t. Crazy because you think people can bring in their pets and not be distracted? Yeah, that’s kind of insane, and I get so tired of her asking that I finally say “yeah, that shit’s crazy as hell.” Of course she doesn’t hear me because she has been talking over me (not in the “oh sorry! I was so excited” way, but in the “I’m the only person in the room whose opinion matters” way).  

I realized then that saying yes was a huge mistake and it’s all because of my hair. Why did I allow my hair-distraction to hobble my decision making skills? Especially when her hair isn’t much better than mine.

But still I just sit there, waiting for it to end, because any attempts I make at wrapping up the conversation fall on deaf ears. And it does end, when her next meeting arrives, no doubt secretly and unknowingly about to be coerced into indentured servitude, thanks to Wile E. So I leap up (having been poised on the edge of my seat for an hour, ready for whatever moment would free me), and I tell HR, “We got this!” and quickly vacate.  I suppose the good thing about letting the condition of your hair take over your prefrontal cortex is that, come a good hair day, SHIT GETS DONE.  And naturally, after being Alfalfaized, I spend maybe almost five minutes on my hair the next day, blowing and styling and gelling (maxin’ and relaxin’).  I walk into the office ready to kick ass. I fire up my computer, crack my knuckles (no, not really), and start crafting my “no thanks” email to HR (because I WILL NOT go to her office, do you hear me??).

Hi HR

Ugh! I think I overextended myself when I accepted the co-chair position. I am SWAMPED right now with contract-stuff [keep it vague], but you know what? I think you got this under control!

🙂

Now, I’m not saying that I’m just so absolutely fabulous when working the Donation Drive (and really, even if I were? The bar is set low). But what I am saying is that I typically get into it, which yeah, raises more money, and so this year, because of my Alfalfa hair but mostly because Wile E. threw me under the bus and wished me well, there’s going to be some nonprofits out there who won’t get a check from us.  And this power is delicious.