Proverbs 18, Verse 21
"Those who love to talk will suffer the consequences. Men have died for saying the wrong thing!"
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CHIPPED WISDOM:
An annual performance review is a terrifying thing, created by Human Resource departments which are, by and large, staffed with and by terrifying people. People like to joke about how sadistic high heels are ("and, of course, they were invented by MEN!") and, of course, the annual performance review was created specificially to torture the desk-tethered working class chimpanzpolyees of the world, and, what's more to the point, the annual performance review was most likely created by people who probably never had to have one.
For most people, I guess, the annual performance review is kind of a big deal because it lets you know how much money you're going to make, or not, in the coming year. When, however, your life's occupational efforts for the last 365 days come down to forty or fifty cents, the annual performance review comes down to something a lot more meaningful:
Somebody's going to sit down across from you and tell you what they think of you. They're going to talk about your strengths.
AND YOUR FAULTS!
They'll call them "weaknesses", because that's "nice". Maybe they'll call them "targeted areas of performance improvement". They might say that "we just need to make a few tweaks".
Make.
A few.
Tweaks.
TWEAK!
T
w
e
a
k
That's a funny word. It's a drug thing. Drugs are funny!!!!
No supervisor I've ever had has told me that they're gonna tweak me up or whatever, in fact, most of my annual performance reviews have been quite nice. Effortless. Pain-free. The very quintesscence of tweak-less.
There was one, however....
Back when I was young and stupid(er) I got this job working in a non-profit. They rented an ass-donkey expensive office out in some officeburb and I had my own office. Four walls and a closed door. WITH MY TWEAKIN' NAME ON IT. The door closed, and it didn't have glass or frosted glass-- I could have been attaching car batteries to my nipples while watching a poodle do tricks on my desk during my lunch hour in there and nobody would have known. Unless the poodle narced on me. Not that he'd dare cross me, what with that car battery right there.
So, little skinny Jewish Donald Trump had his desk and his office and his phone with lots of buttons and lights, just like he'd dreamed of. He wore a dress shirt and tie and "church pants" to work every day, he nodded to the ice-queen rent-a-ceptionist as he walked past her and secretly thought about what she looked like naked every morning and he went to work and pretended like he knew what he was doing.
After around four months, he found he actually did know what he was doing. Those first few months don't actually count, dummy-- that's why it's called a probationary period.
Anyway, it was a very small organization-- just the executive director, a program head, and this glasses-wearing asshole in the tie with the car battery, tweakin'. A year went by, and all of a sudden it was ANNUAL REVIEW TIME!
His notes were impeccable.
The summaries of applications to the board were succinct and yet full of detail.
His files were orderly.
He communicated with applicants in a courteous, efficient, capable way.
He was never late.
EVER.
All work was completed in a timely fashion.
He had learned to ask for help when he needed it.
He worked well independently and as part of a team.
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But.
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"You know, I really feel," said the Executive Director, "that you don't make enough small-talk. You know my birthday was two months ago, and you didn't even say anything."
I stared at her, blankly. Numb. Tweakin'.
Are you serious?
I didn't say that, but that's evidently what my face said, because she, without missing a beat, said,
"I'm serious-- you know office culture really thrives on people feeling AT HOME with one another, comfortable. Like family. And you just don't engage in that office chit-chat."
..........
"But... I'm working. I'm here to work," was my reply. I was amazed that, at twenty-three, I could summon the balls to say that to a narcissistic fifty-six-year-old.
(Oops. Fifty-seven. Sorry.)
"Yes," she said, "but, you know-- work's not all work!"
---
And I get it now. I get it. But it's not easy for me. Small-talk. Chit-chat. Chatterboxin'. Water coolering (I also, apparently, wasn't very good about calling the water cooler company when we were running out of bottles) and chin-waggin'. There has to be a certain amount of that. But I find my way with the spoken word so inept, so fumbling, so fussy, so fraught with petrifying consequences that I avoid it. I throw myself into meaningless paperwork or keyboard clattering so I won't have to say boo to anyone, because, let's face it, "boo" is scary. And I don't want to scare you. What you read on here is probably scary enough. But at least you know I'm thinking it over before I press "Publish" (well, I'm thinking a little bit) but my mouth is frightening, and sometimes it moves faster than my brain does. Ironically, it's my writing that's gotten me in the most trouble in my life, professionally and personally, but I still feel that it's my safe place. So don't be offended if I can't look you in the eye and talk joyfully about my kids, or yours, or the weather, or politics, or the Weathermen, or which way the wind's blowing. I'll just be over here, with my face buried in a binder, or a computer screen, or behind this here door.
Nevermind the barking.
