Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

Yes. Yes I do.

And YOU’RE LATE, Mister New Guy.

I hate being tardy. Hate it worse than bad veggies, worse than insulin injections, worse than the fact that Spanish television has beautiful women for Sergei and ugly men for me.

My family brought this on me. My parents purposely set all the clocks in the house 5 minutes ahead, a mental psych-out that somehow got us to work and school and church and 4-H on time, even with a few minutes to spare. We got the best seats, the freshest food, the self-obsessing glee at noting who was late.

So I grew up in a time-jumped world. And now in my house, all clocks, watches, and VCRs have the time set 5-10 minutes fast. (And I hate that I can’t change the time on the cable boxes or the caller id. Control freaky-girl.)

I like being early.

And now we jump to work.

My company has a very liberal flex-time policy. VEEEERY liberal. Core hours, the times you MUST be here, are 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., with 2 hours allowed between those times for lunch. Any time you want. As long as you put in 40 hours a week. Fridays, you can leave as early as Noon if you have your time in. Some people come in at 6 am, work until 3 with no lunch break, and work 4 hours on Friday. Some come in at 9, work until 6, take an hour lunch. It’s really up to each person to figure out what works best for them. And it’s a sweet policy.

Until you start abusing it.

Then the malenky little hairs on my neck stand up and I sincerely just want to punch you, and not a friendly shoulder-punch, but more a fist-to-jaw punch, the kind that rattles your head-cage, the kind that makes you afraid of me and willing to do what I ask. Not being a violent person, I hold the punch-reflex inside my belly until it explodes in exhausted-mom sighs and then I have to tattle on you.

The new programmer we hired a month ago is constantly late. Okay, we hired him even though he was LATE to his FIRST interview with us. Half an hour late. And he didn’t call to let us know that he would be late. He was late to his second interview. Late to the luncheon to introduce him to our department. Late late late. He’s a good programmer. But the lateness thing has wrenched my panties in a bunch that sticks in my crack.

Last week the boss was on vacation. New Guy didn’t show up until AFTER 10 a.m. EVERY day of the week. So several of us made notes of when he arrived and calmly, politely, squealed on him to the boss this week. Because that crap MUST stop.

Now look. If you can’t get your sorry ass outta bed by, oh, 9:30 a.m. and throw on clothes and get to work by 10, then you need more alarm clocks. You need your wife and three kids to kick your sorry excuse for a working-class ass outta bed and get you here ON TIME. ‘Cause you know what? You’re still technically on probation. For two more months. And even though you’re a good worker, you’re not HERE when we need you to be. And we can fire you with that cause alone. It took you 6 months to find THIS job, are you really so willing to let that go, because you are lazy and slothful and ignorant and rude?

TEN AY-EM.

Is that so bloody hard?