workingfortheman.com

I don't really know where it all started. That moment from which Jabba went from being my mentor, my friend, and even my idol, to the egomaniacal, morally bankrupt figure whose ghost I left in my dust as I squealed my tires on the way out of Granolaville. Or maybe (most likely) it was that she had always been a self-centered, insecure bitch with grandiose intentions, and I, starry-eyed and looking for direction as I was (fresh out of college), had been too naive to see her for what she was.

I call her Jabba not out of bitterness or cruelty, but for the sake of accuracy. It was as if there was a swaying mountain of slimy, pulpy, flabby flesh that squatted voluminously before me, her glazed-over eyes oozing unidentifiable secretions. I caught Jabba's image on a television once, without realizing that it was her. I felt, first, disgust at the gray, snail-like creature on the screen, and then pity, as I realized that this woman whom I could not even recognize on camera was my boss, the woman whom I had once thought would mentor me into my political career, and who once had my undivided loyalty.

Jabba was a true silent subversive, so my awakening to her true nature came in droplets. My first inkling came when she asked me to write up job descriptions for all the staff, including myself. I proceeded to promulgate challenging and comprehensive descriptions for the staff. My own position description involved assisting Jabba with all aspects of her job, from management and number-crunching, to the slightly more glamorous chores of fundraising and presswork. I had mentioned these aspects of the job as an extension beyond the grunt work, which I acknowledged was necessary and a part of my job. I had no problems with answering phones, dodging bill collectors, and handling Jabba's correspondence -- one could even say that I knew my station in life. But I had told Jabba when I started that I expected to grow in the position and gain lots of new skills in exchange for accepting the paltry salary which she paid me, and she had heartily agreed. However, when she returned my description, the afternoon before she left for vacation, no less (the better to avoid my questions), I read with horror that I would be relegated to the grunt work. If I was lucky, Jabba the bitch would let me write an article for the newsletter.

After that, the situation snowballed. I felt like Sisyphus whose rock had rolled over him, in a Hades gone awry. First there was the ass-kissing receptionist who began gunning for my job (an irritation and an insult, to be sure, but no grave threat. I was smarter than Jabba and the ass-kisser put together. Jabba needed me too much, and we both knew it). Then came the derogatory comments about my ethnicity and her concerns that I did not fall within her preconceived notions of what I should be. She always made sure to show off the minorities on staff, and to tout her plans for greater diversity in the organization, but when we received the necessary funding, the money went directly to other "priority" projects.

If Jabba denigrated my being brown, she also demonstrated the flip side, which was a celebration of her own heritage: Texas White Trash. She regaled us with tales of white trash delicacies such as fried bologna and butter sandwiches, and always seemed to bring up her Daddy, a "businessman," no less, who brought home untold fortunes of frozen fish, Bonne Bell makeup, and glitter nail polish. Needless to say, these stories always aroused great quantities of both respect and enduring jealousy in her staff.

These antics were merely the opening act to the real floor show: Jabba could not spring forth hellion from her loins. She was infertile. Thus came the hormones. This is where it really started to go downhill for me. Relations between us had been strained, but I knew how to fake it with my boss. Regardless, I found a note from her in my message box one day: "You have been giving me all sorts of attitude and I am no longer going to put up with it! You can't get away with this behavior. You have been doing a lackluster job -- Come see me as soon as you get this." I was mortified, convinced that I was about to be unceremoniously fired. Or worse, denied the vacation request I had intended to place that afternoon. She avoided me the rest of the day, and when I finally accosted her to ask, "Did you want to talk to me?", she looked at me with a beatific smile and said, "Oh no -- Everything's fine." I got my ass outta there on vacation the very next week. Once I was actually on vacation, I decided to make it permanent.

Every once in a while, unfortunately, the image of Jabba eating a fried bologna and butter sandwich pops into my head. The feeling that image evokes sums up how I feel about my entire experience working with Jabba: Total disgust.

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