There's something wrong with a process that requires the following:
1) Team review
2) More team review
3) Quality control review
4) Final team review
5) Publishing to PDF
6) Team approval, but by the bosses of the people that reviewed, who might just have opinions that require a loop back to step 3
7) Signature by a muckity muck, who might just have opinions that loop back AGAIN to step 3.
What I'm saying here is, that for this efficiency-minded gal, this is a metric ASSLOAD of people to keep track of and hoops through which I need to jump. If I were to design a workflow that makes sense, it would go like dos here:
1) team review, INCLUDING quality review
2) approval by the reviewers
3) render final copy
4) sign
Gah! Stupid SOPs. Just....gah!
And that is as close to work bitching that you'll hear here. Because, let's face it, the life of a medical writer is not nearly as fabulous as one might think it to be and therefore makes for some pretty dull reading. Oh, sure, we get to do stuff like rub elbows with kings and queens, get invited to soirees at places like Pure just on the strength of our generally witty repartee and vast knowledge of all things disease-ly, and as a part of the standard contract package are allowed to drink only bottles of water that have been filtered though gold-mesh nets woven by sea nymphs on the days of the full moon (all other moon phases lending far less Lunesque purity to the mesh, naturally), but really, it's not all glamour and glitz.
Lots of times it's far more akin to the punishment of Sisyphus, except with mountains of comments, rules, and other people's egos. Pushing, always pushing, toward an impossible goal.
It must be said that I am fully aware of how trivial this might seem to you. After all, the pay is good and I'm still not having to dig any ditches for a living. I should suck it up, you're right, because it could be so MUCH worse.
But still, gah!
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BBQ season has arrived at the Tiny House.
I'm talking about grilling, for all y'all from the south. Grilling in the South = BBQing in the North, whereas BBQ in the North means "pulled spiced/smoked meat" in the south, sometimes with sauce.
It's tough being so cosmopolitan.
Ennywhoo - after warming up the new Weber with some chicken Sunday and some burgers Monday, last night saw the advent of some 2-inch-thick pork chops on the grill . Rubbed 'em with garlic to start, drizzeld them with EVOO, sprinkled them with pepper and rosemary, and plopped those bad boys on the grill. When paired up with some grilled taters and onions (done in an aluminum foil packet on the grill with garlic, salt, and pepper) and some sauteed zucchini, red pepper, and summer squah (also with more garlic! Woot!), those chops were more than a meal. Well, they SHOULD have been, anyhow. ;)
Grilled meat? Yum-oh. Animals are tasty.
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You'd probably never believe that from that previous carnal rhapsody I used to be vegetarian, but I did. Worked pretty well. I know for SURE my digestive system loved it, once I got used to all that roughage and fiber.
The 'getting used to' is something I should have remembered the other night before eating a massive amount of baked beans. I'm pretty sure the folks on the other side of the cube farm could hear my intestines gurgling, bubbling, growling, and bloviating the next morning. It raised a bead of sweat on my upper lip, it did.
Too bad the cube neighbor from Planet Flatulata was in an all-day meeting...I had SUCH ample ammo for a lively exchange of tootery.
Yesterday, though, when he returned to the cube, I had nothing. So sad, because guess what? He's into SBDs now! Fucker. There's NO mistaking the smell of someons else's ass gas, and his is a musty combination of sewage and dead chicken.
If this keeps up I might have to go BACK to the HR guy with further complaint. Yes, back. I leave to you to imagine how that convo went....
And with that I wish you a good day. I'm off to the bank to see why they returned my mortgage payment. It's a neverending stream of funshine around these parts, I'm telling you!
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