Reclassification

I’m at that sweet spot in the pain med where my mind is clear but the pain hasn’t come back yet. I’ll take advantage of it to make a brief update.

Yesterday I hurt. There was one thought in my mind, and that was the countdown until I could go home. I had one last thing to do – make a photocopy of a report that had to be on someone else’s desk first thing in the morning. I could hear The Mouth heading my way, so I quickly ducked out the back door of my office and ran across the way to make my copies. I slipped back into my office as quietly as possible, gathered up my briefcase and jacket, and nearly made it out the door when The Mouth pounced out of nowhere.

Well, OK, she actually was lurking for me outside my office door. But it seemed like she pounced out of nowhere.

It seems that she and the Big Boss had a little conversation about how to reduce her workload. They agreed that certain things she’s doing could be transferred over to my desk. She then precedes list off five responsibilities that had always been mine, including the project she poached from me back in the beginning of January, and announced I’d now be “leader”.

It probably wasn’t wise, but I couldn’t stand it. I confronted her on the January project. I don’t know why I chose that one out of the list of things I could have confronted her on, save that this one was the most recent.

Me: I don’t know why you were doing that anyhow. I’ve always been responsible for that in the past.

Mouth: I guess the contact just had my name and assumed he was supposed to go through me.

Me: I’ve done this since 2000. The contact has my name. He’s worked with me every year on this. Why would he think I was no longer doing this?

Mouth: Well, The Big Boss agrees that we need to reduce my workload, and this looked like it was more your area anyhow, so we’ll be putting you in charge of it from here on.

She’s overworked? They decided to assign this to me? WTF is she trying to pull off here? Somehow I’ve gone from the injured party to her lackey. She can’t manage MY jobs, so I’m now to do them for her? I’m the “leader”? That’s the term they use for line foremen, for junior executives, for someone who isn’t ordinarily considered management but has a particular responsibility that casts them in a managerial position.

It must be that I’m not thinking clearly because of the pain and the drugs. I’m getting what I want. I’ve gotten some of my stolen responsibilities back. But I feel like I’ve just been the patsy in a huge sting operation.

Freakus controlus territorialis strikes again. I may have misclassified her though. Indeed, she may not be Freakus controlus at all, but instead a member of Megalomanius aspirus, subspecies backstabius.

It is important that I note at this point exactly how good The Socialist has been to me this past week. He makes sure I’m comfortably situated when I get home from work, then goes off and does his thing, coming back eery so often to check on if I’m getting along OK. He’s found that fine balance between hoovering over me and not paying sufficient attention to me. I’ve gotten arm rubs, and cookies fetched and lots of sympathy. I get snippy when I’m in pain, and he’s tolerated my less-that-optimal moods with good grace. Once I get this neck problem sorted out, I’m going to have to think of something particularly nice to do for him.

Forty-seven hours until Dr. Disc.