Death Sheep from Hell (fenton) wrote,
Death Sheep from Hell
fenton

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Where to start?

Ok, yeah, it’s been ages since I last posted here. And even longer since I posted anything of particular import. So, let’s see. Oh, right. Got home at 1 in the morning. On a night I was supposed to be home by, oh, 5 or so, by prefference, 6 at the latest, so I could spend some time with the people I’m, you know, married to. Spouses. I expect most of you remember that this group of people is composed of amaltheae and ysabel; the problem is that I’m starting to wonder if I will. Or maybe if I do.

Uh, that maybe come out quite right. This has nothing to do with anything they’ve done (er, well, not anything negative, anyway), and everything to do with a combination of ADD medications, habits and patterns, and my current employer (or, more specifically, my current project assignments within that employer). They’re both responsible (though realistically, Amy pushed on Deb first, and without that, I’m not sure Deb would have been pushing on me—and Amy was definitely pushing on me) for the fact that I’m on ADD meds at all, and while it is frequently being frustrating as fuck, this is mostly because, as the saying around the house has become, there is a stage (actually, several…) where you pretty much flail around hopelessly and feel overwhelmed by the amount of shit you’re not getting accomplished. It isn’t that you’re really doing more, mind you, it’s just that you suddenly realize how much of it there is.

So, three guesses as to what happens when you put together the following concoction:

  • A person in the process of gradually upping their dosage of ADD meds …
  • … who has a quarter of a century or so of habits build up around coping (poorly) with the ADD …
  • … and whose coworkers are the sort to ask, several weeks ago, for “three new *mumble database record takes about 10 minutes to put together if everything is in order mumble*” because that’s one of his nominal ‘in passing’ duties—so long as it is in passing—and get an ‘Ok’ for half an hour of work …
  • … and then deliver about half the information for those three items …
  • … and when asked for the necessary supporting data, come up with a spreadsheet of it, plus a dozen more items, each of which needs significant updating, after 4 PM on a Friday afternoon …
  • … and then bother to tell him that the off‐shore contractors who work more or less all of the hours between Friday afternoon and Monday morning ‘kind of need’ that data available in the system test database to be able to get their work done.

End result? Not only did I not get home until 1 AM (because, of course, the spreadsheet data for all of those other items was, you guessed it, incomplete and required analysis and research when everyone was already gone on Friday), but I got to look like a complete and total asshole for having tried to be communicative to the spouse who is already pretty damned upset with me for never coming home, especially on Friday evenings which are supposed to be social time—because, when I was under the impression that it was just ‘put in the last pieces of data for the already 90% completed entries, which should be in the worksheet they promised to get to me’, I told her that I hadn’t forgotten about the evening or coming home, but was not going to try to resolve the other issue I’m already past a deadline on, tonight, but would come home as soon as I got the information and put it in. Because, for their various failings, this set of folks has at least consistantly gotten me the data I needed, or a “we can’t get that until Monday” answer.

I did not, in fact, attempt to resolve the other problem. Which means that come Monday, I’m going to have to answer to my boss about why the other project is missing deliverables, why something I estimated at half an hour took more than six hours, etc. Oh, and I still have to put the data into the production servers (since it’s safe to do live updating on, once the system testers give a thumbs‐up on the basic sanity checks). By hand, because the tools we have do not make scripting it plausible, and rewriting them to do so would take (literally) ten to a hundred times longer than the expected number of hours spent on the task between now and the planned retirement of those tools. Of course, nothing ever goes as planned, either…

At this point, everyone is staring at me dumbfounded, I’m sure, and being unable to comprehend why the hell I didn’t just say “Gee, that’s too bad, maybe you should have asked me to estimate the amount of time it would actually take to do this job, including the analysis I explicitly told you was NOT covered in the 30‐minutes‐for‐3‐entries estimate I gave you then” and go the fuck home. Especially if I’m going to have to deal with my boss on Monday anyway.

Here’s the kicker: despite normally being assertive to the point of being a complete asshole to many people, despite knowing damned well that this was going to take several hours at best, and despite knowing that my spouses really wanted to have me at home to, you know, actually see me sometimes (despite the fact that I work with Deb, she may well get less interaction with me than Amy does, at this point, since we’re often both so scattered and/or shot that we don’t exactly get a lot of quality time out of it)…

It didn’t really cross my mind.

I mean, in some vague sense, it did. And just drifted right on past, despite being more or less exactly what I should have done. Or, at the VERY least, come home, spent time with my spouses, and worked on the set that was 80% of the result for 20% of the effort after that (painful to try to do with the way work’s remote access setup is, but doable). I know what I should have done, and my brain was so busy latching onto panic mode and figuring out how to try to cope with the sudden onslaught because I’m feeling so desperately guilty about all of the other pieces I’m behind on that everything else got overwhelmed and I dropped into hyperfocus. Which got worse as my last dose of drugs for the day started to wear off.

So now I’m sitting here at 3:15 in the morning, writing a journal entry because that, too, has been on the giant stack of “shit that I’m never managing to do”, and remembering that part of one of the calls I was mostly‐ignoring in one ear today while trying to get some code actually written involved being told that the new product catalog—which will be replacing the one that I’m one of 4 people in the company who can make entries in, Deb being one of the other 3, and all but me having more or less dodged or handed off this bullet—will be replaced by this other tool, which is fine, knew that, OK… and that they will be rolling this tool out come hell or high water, or even “it breaks every single online order anyone tries to place and they all go manual and get emailed to the humans who process fallout orders”. They were making really joyous noises, a week or two ago, because our fallout rate on all but the oldest, cruftiest, nastiest sorts of orders that nobody does online anyway had dropped to something like 20–30% over the entire order path (this is, actually, pretty damned good given that includes everything except ‘never logged in’ losses), and now I’m told that we’re going to ditch the software I helped write and currently dump data into, for one that can’t even do the job that is currently being done, and for what? What is so amazing about this product that it warrants that kind of brutal expense in terms of employee satisfaction, customer satisfaction, increased workload and expense for handling the same number of orders, and otherwise just trashing everyone’s sanity?

Because “you can put products into it a couple of days”. As opposed to, uh, the fact that I spent no more than 2 workdays total putting in a dozen products in the current catalog, and the fact that the only reason that DOESN’T show up immediately is that nobody else is using the fucking thing dynamically to get that data—and they’re all going to have to spend 3–6 months, or more, of 20+ developer groups (each!) to adapt to the new catalog. You know, the current one isn’t perfect. It’s far from it; I should know, I’ve had to dive through some of the gnarliest code in there to maintain it after the last formal release, and the one significant patch so far involved ripping out the entire subsystem that was having issues because it was so badly written that it simply wasn’t feasible to patch it back into working when the operating environment changed—without warning, of course—and there was no way short of updating hardcoded stuff to tell it “hey, go look over here”. Give me six to eight people (including manager overhead) that I get to hand‐pick, give me access to the developers who are the actual clients of a system that is purely infrastructure (rather than the ‘web developer’ contracters who are desperate to appear important and thus get in the middle), give us permission to use whatever tools we please as long as they don’t cost the company significant money (in support or licenses) and we can meet the requirements for the various audits/reviews (code, security, etc.), and I’ll bet we could have it brutally competetive in that timeframe.

Fine, allright, I know, labor of pride and all that. But it wouldn’t be so fucking depressing if they would at least come up with something better for all the damned money and time (= money) they’re pouring into this thing.

So, instead, I get, in the same day, to manage to piss off both of my spouses for reasons I can’t even remotely disagree with, to get told that my work—both past, and the present grueling thrash—are so worthless that it is worth losing millions of dollars to get rid of it faster than humanly possible, and to spend something like a 14 hour day working under deadlines that are making me want to stand up, rend my garments, tear my hair, paint a giant Q in woad on my chest, and use a lightsabre on everyone who has annoyed me at work in the last year, just so I can use the line “ride THIS light, bee‑yotch”.

Instead, I’m going to go try (and probably fail) not to wake up my spouses by coming to bed at 4 in the morning, because going downstairs to sleep in the chair and not wake them up will make them worry when they wake up without me being there. And consider whether it’s more worthwhile to curl up in a ball and hide from the world, up my dosage to something that would leave most people twitching and writhing on the floor in a haze of speed overdose, or … well, I don’t know. Probably the other alternative is get into a fight that I won’t, can’t, and don’t even particularly want to be able to win, if either of them is going to tell me what a fuckup I’m being. Yeah, I know, they won’t use—or even mean—those words, but the fact that guilt over not getting what I ‘should’ be getting done at work done can be so overwhelming in the moment that it wrenches my world into completely stupid places does not, actually, do anything whatsoever to alleviate the guilt I feel over the fact that I wasn’t home tonight. Again. As usual. Because there’s always something, and clearly having an actual relationship with my spouses is not a higher priority than some random people I’ve never met in India who will probably displace me from my job in a few years anyway.

I think that above covers it. I suppose it’s a good sign that my other meds are still working, given that I don’t feel particularly depressed or suicidal or anything about that. Just viciously, utterly, vindictively bitter.

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