I am officially tired of getting stuck with all the P-jobs.
Several years ago, one of my co-workers made a list of all the little jobs around the office–jobs that aren’t assigned to anyone in particular but which have to get done nonetheless: watering the plants, fixing the Xerox machine, setting up booze for special events, and so on. The miscellaneous stuff no one thinks about.
On one side of this list were the V-jobs (i.e. Vagina-jobs), and on the other side were–you guessed it–the P-jobs. We’re a pretty laid back bunch, and we’re none-too-PC, so we all thought it was kinda funny. Every so often, as an onerous task reared its head, someone would invoke his or her biological privilege (e.g. “Don’t look at me! That’s clearly a P-job!”), and we’d all have a good laugh.
Unfortunately, it is no longer a laughing matter.
Today, as I sat at my desk attempting to respond to a dozen emails and craft half a dozen grant applications–all of which are due in, like, a week–and going grayer every passing second, I heard a co-worker down the hall. She was moaning and cursing and sighing (not in the good way). Then I heard her all-too-familiar plaintive cry: “Richard! My mouse won’t work!”
Ladies and gentlemen, it’s 2006: who the hell doesn’t know how to fix a goddamn mouse? Or open a bottle of wine? Or any number of things that involve crouching, lifting, and potentially getting schmutzed? I don’t care that I’m the only guy in our five-person office; if I weren’t here, surely one of them would figure out how to change the toner cartridges in the laser printer.
Of course, I know I’m partially to blame. I was raised in the Deep South by very traditional parents, and I’m a total softie to boot, so when someone asks me to do something–especially a woman–I’m usually more than happy to lend a hand. Now, however, I’m beginning to feel a bit used.
Maybe I should feign a dislocated shoulder for a couple of months. Anyone got a sling (not the fun kind)?
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