Between the vagaries of my web development work and daily life — “minor” updates to glade.ca that turned so easily into a complete three-week site overhaul, that challenging Levi’s “Go Forth” campaign, endless TD Canada Trust banners, assorted Purolator stuff, birthdays, and a visit to Canada’s Wonderland (Behemoth is pretty kick-ass, I must say ), I’ve hardly had room to swing a cat through my schedule.

Just as well – Ollie probably wouldn’t have taken well to it.

I finally managed to convince one of the agencies I work with that the term “independent contractor” isn’t merely a figure of speech (that and the liberal use of the term “employee” – why do I keep running into this?!), so I was looking forward to doing some work from home and mixing in healthy doses of blogging. But fate, being the filthy whore she is, pulled another steamy week out of her ass.

That window fan I’ve had going non-stop for about three months now has simply been circulating oven-like heat throughout my living room, over the exposed chassis of my computer and two surprisingly warm monitors (programming with just one monitor is a sort of punishment), and right back at my puffy, bloated face. Oh yeah, and it’s allergy season again.

Anyhow, I finally ran out of excuses tonight and took it to the streets.

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Yes, I have to admit that believing me to be dead would be a natural conclusion at this point. The gears have all but ground to a halt here at TCL, the Toronto City Life Twitter feed has barely seen the light of day over the past couple of weeks, and for all intents and purposes I may as well be pushing up the digital daisies.

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Wow. I have to be honest, dear reader, I wasn’t expecting the continuing vitriol that I received on Friday when I handed over my resignation. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be happy, but not that. I offered to come back as a contractor in the nicest way I could muster and was told, side-mouth, as jerkwad was walking away from me that “no, that won’t be happening”. I’m absolutely certain that that wasn’t a rational reaction, I think he’d already invested his whole heart into me becoming his personal, absolutely free, work-till-you-drop lap dog. I must’ve really hurt his feelings.

I guess you know the story by now, crazy project, crazy hours, and at the end they basically gave me the middle finger for even suggesting that I take some time off. I was “expected” to keep that up for another two months, minimum. After my probationary period, then, maybe, a few days off. What about the time off that the law allows for workers to rest so, you know, we don’t die and stuff? Those came off my vacation days. And again, wasn’t I lucky that they granted me such privileges – what an asshole I was for fucking them over like this. Overtime pay or lieu time?! HOW DARE I?!

When I think about it, I suppose thinking that they’d at least try to consider our plight was optimistic, but I’d hoped that by reminding them of their obligations as employers, under the law, they’d at least pacify me and send me on my way. But no, jerky to the very bitter end.

So I’m filing a complaint with the Ministry of Labour. It’s just not cool to treat people that way, legally or otherwise.

That’s me and a gentleman I met at the Human Rights complaints office. Turned out this wasn’t the office I wanted, they deal mostly with discrimination and everyone at my former employer is treated equally shabbily. I guess my complaint is common enough that the government now conducts most of its business online, so my trip was entirely unnecessary. But it was a nice day and I’d just quit the sweatshop (really, dictionary definition), so why the heck not?

The gentleman accompanying me had a compelling case – former manager in a well-known company, been there for a while, forced out by a higher-up who later turned out to be a bit of a scoundrel. The details certainly seemed to fit and sounded honest, and he claimed to have documented every step of the story. I don’t know if he’ll get the damages he’s asking for, but some of the lower sums he was tossing out (and that the lawyers had been suggesting), seem more likely. But I only know as much about the law as I need to, so that’s that analysis for you.

After our chat we strolled to nearby Nathan Phillips Square where the Paralympic torch relay was being held:

No idea what the point of this was supposed to be but I found it kind of funny that, apparently, you’re allowed to subdivide the flame – there was definitely more than one torch running the track:

I’m thinking that, should my funds start running low, maybe I’ll get into the Olympic flame racket. “No, honest, it came off the Olympic torch. You can even use it to start campfires – Olympic campfires! Think of how good those marshmallows’ll taste.”

In the meantime, though, I’m really averse to being an employee again. I mean, sometimes managers are just boobs, but sometimes they’re absolute tyrants. Either way, I have a really hard time buying what they’re selling. So, here I am on my first free Saturday since early February, jobless, nothing lined up and no feelers out (and no richer off for the experience, let me tell you!). I can honestly say I’ve never been in this position before. Bit scary. Also a bit exhilarating – I do pretty good work under pressure, implying I’ve got about month of layabout time before things start to get serious. But I tend to get antsy after about three days, so I don’t expect I’ll be pushing that envelope very much. Besides, my last fortune cookie said, “You will become an accomplished writer” (undoubtedly referring to TCL) – how can you argue with that?

If there’s any surliness in this post dear reader, I apologize. Unfortunately, it looks like my full-time status with my current employer is about to come to an abrupt and screeching halt. Well, I’ll try to avoid the screeching, but I’m loathe to put in even an hour more. Not as an employee anyway.

Let me explain.

As you may be well aware by now, I’ve been putting in some insane hours lately. Around 300 for the last month, according to my rough estimate. Fair enough, they warned me it would be crazy. Can’t say I was always peachy when it came to losing weekends, weeknights, sleep, nerves, and basically my entire life for the last two-and-a-half consecutive weeks (I was only doing 12-hour to 14-hour days before that). Laundry, Ollie, and kitchen sink all suffered – not good situations. But, I’d hoped that the extreme flexibility they were requesting of me would be reciprocated. All said and done, I’d worked roughly two weeks extra during the four weeks. None of that was because of any deadlines I’d missed, I should point out. Seems like that was just how the thing was scheduled.

So, I was asking for three days off. Three measly days.

I figured asking for overtime pay wouldn’t fly, and besides, I really just wanted some time to rest and recuperate – get my wits back together before taking on my newly added duties (begin managing the other developers as part of my seniorness). Apparently they’d already booked me on another project but when I requested my time off they tentatively switched me to another smaller one. Cool, I thought. Guess it shouldn’t be a problem – they’re shifting stuff around to give me some room. Plus, the new project really shouldn’t take more than a day or two. Three if the computer bursts into flames halfway through.

It struck me as odd was that I was asked to fill in a vacation request form. Again, though, I thought it shouldn’t be a problem. Just paperwork. I’d finally get some rest (plus the time to do all the other things I’d been neglecting). That’s all I really wanted.

Spoke to the head of H.R., told him I really needed some time off, told him why. “Oh, I don’t care one bit, I know it’s been crazy around here”, he replied. Still cool, I guess. Came across as a bit non-committal but he seemed to genuinely not care about me getting away for a few days.

Spoke to the managers on my initial project (currently on vacation), they didn’t think it’d be a big deal. But they’d be out of the picture so…

Unfortunately, it seems that the new project manager (who today, possibly yesterday, returned from vacation and isn’t “quite with it” yet), booked me in for this Friday. Ooh, part of my three days off – no can do. And I’m pretty sure that I didn’t even exist on this project until this week so I’m not sure how that commitment got made. How many times did I tell them I need some time off? And just to add some extra pique to this, I later found out that this thing isn’t going out until mid-March, so the urgency of forcing me in this Friday really escapes me. Fairly certain the weekend would be involved too, you know, for all the stuff that’d be overlooked. Not my first time down that path, you must understand.

Perhaps there’s some question about my willingness to put in the hours or effort to get things done? Perhaps my seniority doesn’t apply to my ability to estimate the amount of work involved?

So I raised a concern.

It went up the chain of command.

I got the hand in the face.

Not only the hand, but reminded that I’m still on my probationary period and don’t really even qualify for vacation – I’m lucky to get two days (that’s my word but that was the implication). I was reminded that I’d been duly warned, the hours weren’t the typical 9-to-5. Oh yes, I understood that going in, I said. I just didn’t realize that I would be expected to hand over my life, health, etc., in exchange for a pat on the back and the opportunity to add to my ulcer collection for what amounts to less than minimum wage (salary divided by hours). Okay, to be fair, that will be true at the end of this month when the new minimum wage kicks in, but it’s not far off the current mark. Did I mention I took a bit of a pay cut to work there?

In other words, this schedule is expected of me and it’s a bit rude to even be asking for a break. When I was told I’d be giving up my first-born, I didn’t think they were being serious. Perhaps that’s my fault. Perhaps I misunderstood. But, as Danny Glover so eloquently put it, “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

Don’t worry, dear reader, I’ll let them down gently. After all, freelance work would probably be considerably more advantageous there. At least that’s what the freelancers I work with lead me to believe. And, you know, I’m okay with a thank-you note in the form of cheque – for every single hour I’ve put in. Not like they wouldn’t be getting their money’s worth. The company-wide email with my name in it doesn’t really do it for me, to be perfectly honest. Also, the ability to refuse the next project is quite handy.

Heck, I would’ve scrounged up enough for a month off at this point. Instead, I get a guilt trip for two days. They were grudgingly approved in the end, except I’m not sure they’re technically a “vacation” so much as “the law”. Seems like I shouldn’t have to fight for that.

*sigh*

That just won’t do

It’s done, dear reader!

I’ve signed on the dotted line and am now the proud new Senior Flash Developer at Henderson Bas, a downtown ad agency with a bunch of famous clients and awards coming out the wazoo. I normally wouldn’t mention their name but, being so out there, I don’t think they’re averse to being discussed. I’ll just have to refrain from talking too much smack.

The contract was a gargantuan tome, one of the largest volumes I’d ever encountered. A whole adult tree made up just the non-disclosure agreement alone, the rest had to be delivered by freight train. So it’s pretty thorough. I’m fairly certain I’ll have to relinquish my spleen upon termination, but that’s a pretty standard clause. Otherwise, I’ll be slapping stuff together for HB come Monday; incidentally also my birthday (I know, right?)

In the same way that I won’t talk smack about HB, I’m not going to go into the gruesome details of why I left my current position. Let’s just say that there were some … issues.

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I think that I may be having a mid-life crisis. May be.

The thing is, I’m not sure if it’s technically mid-life at thirty-five. Also, doesn’t that usually come during the marriage? And I have absolutely no wish to buy a flashy sports car, get hair plugs, or date younger women. Well, maybe that last part. But basically, I’m not exhibiting the standard signs of a crisis. Except maybe uncertainty about my job. No, my vocation; my calling.

This morning, waiting for the streetcar, I looked up at a window washer and seriously thought, “Could I do that?”

I think the main problem is that programming’s just not fun anymore. I’m not talking about sidebar widgets, but the everyday working-for-the-man kind of stuff. On a broader scale, I know that working for money always involves working-for-the-man.  The man has projects and ideas about how he wants those projects to act/look/feel/sound/touch/react/sparkle/etc. Sometimes, it’s hard to get enthusiastic about all those ideas. Sometimes they’re not really even ideas, just innuendo.

As I usually do in my darker moments, I found solace in the Toronto Archives. They revealed that my situation isn’t unique. That others have suffered as I have. That I am not alone:

Gah! That even looks like the office where I work!

Look at them, slaving away for that jerk back there, flipping through filthy mags and abusing himself. And back then, shackles came off only after the shift was finished, and the boss could fire you for anything!

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