A PUBLIC SERVICE
Sherry Does Corporate!
Part 1: Prepare for “onboarding”
Friends, if you’ve had a chance to take a look at my recent story in The Top Shelf, you know that my former employer is hiring me for a four-month, freelance, copywriting gig. Hard to believe, I know, as this is the company that canned me over the phone after thirteen-plus years and shipped my shit to me in busted boxes.
They were literally falling apart.
This is the company that either turned me down or virtually ignored me when I applied for lesser positions. Seven times.
My assignment is to fill in for a woman who’s going on pregnancy leave. A “senior writer,” I believe. For whatever titles are worth. Precious little, from my experience.
From what I’ve gleaned thus far, whatever they’re paying this woman isn’t enough, as the company I used to love working for, has turned into a sweatshop. A “you don’t break until we tell you to break” shop. A “gotta work weekends and holidays” shop. A “prepare to hate your life” shop.
My blood pressure is spiking as I write this, but, as the story kicker announces, I am writing this as a public service for anyone who is “seasoned” in their career, as I am. This is for anyone who has quit their corporate gig, or “been quit” and is considering jumping back into the fray.
Why the hell would we even consider doing this? For the dough, natch.
For you, my frazzled and slightly-stale friends, I’m going to document my journey, no matter how brief. And, although I’m not, nor never have been a quitter, I know, that after this past year in the United States of Pandemica, giving up four more months of my life, is significant. Surely, many of you can understand this.
I’m going for the cash, and that’s it.
On Wednesday, I was “onboarded” via a long meeting on Microsoft Teams. Right off the bat, I felt like an ass as I couldn’t get the fucking video to kick in. Ergo, the five minutes I spent slapping on a smidge of makeup was a complete waste of time.
Lesson learned, although I know damn well the camera will kick in on the very morning I roll out of bed and stumble over to my desk, “bed head” in full glory and a stained, ratty shirt on.
“Onboarding.” That’s the lingo corporations use to fill you in on all the shit you’re going to have to take on. A seemingly benign way of telling you that life as you know it is over.
As my soon-to-be teammates took me through a never-ending slog of files and links and spreadsheets and matrices and other client-related stuff, my brain drifted into a kind of “pea soup.” A foggy, “safe space” where nothing that anyone said could make me shoot my big mouth off. Although, the little Tourettes-ridden dwarf that rides on my shoulder did its best to persuade me to turn that meeting into one they’d never forget.
I maintained though, friends. I did. I grunted appreciatively at all the appropriate moments, complimented the work even as I recalled how I detested having to write this muck and waxed rhapsodic over the stock photography gracing every piece of direct mail and digital communication.
At some point, I had to pee. As usual, I’d waited too long and my bladder was hella pissed. As I wasn’t sure how to excuse myself for a run to the john, I sucked it up.
Next time, I’m just gonna go.
Then, ten minutes before the meeting was to wrap up, I received an alert on my Macbook telling me it was going to piss off if I didn’t attach it to a power source. It ran out of juice!
Now I realize I’m not a tech whiz but I know how to charge a device for chrissake. The Macbook was plugged into a power strip which was naturally, plugged into a wall outlet. My guess was that the power strip crapped out.
But first, just to confirm, I called IT, like any “real” employee would. The woman I talked to didn’t know what a power strip was.
Fuck it. I threw money to the winds and bought a fancy new one on Amazon!
I’ve now paid, out-of-pocket for a 24-inch monitor, an adapter, a wireless mouse that didn’t connect, and a power strip. If nothing else, I have to last long enough in this gig to at least make my money back.
Although I don’t officially cast off until tomorrow, (when this story runs, it will be blast-off day), I’ve been working for days in order to prepare myself for this latest chapter in my Vida Loca.
If you decide to take a similar path as me, know that you’ll probably have to do the same. If you’re expected to “hit the ground running” (I’m starting to hate that phrase), you’d better hit it hard, beforehand.
Get on Google or YouTube or anywhere else that will help you become familiar with all the changes that have ensued since we earned a regular paycheck. And they’re considerable, so don’t sneer.
Just as an aside, the woman that threw my hat in the ring for this gig, has complained about the work load every time we’ve spoken over the phone. She’s a good friend and a former band mate. Yet, I had to wonder why she told me the following:
“Sherry, you’re going to be really busy. You’re not gonna be able to write your scripts.”
Huh. If that doesn’t make my longtime dream sound like a pile of shit, I don’t know what does.
Then again, she doesn’t know me as well as she thinks.
More to come. Maybe.
Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her short films have screened at The Pan African Film Festival in Cannes (awarded “best short”), the Nashville Film Festival, the Honolulu Film Festival, the Los Angeles Film School, New Filmmakers New York, and New Filmmakers Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.
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