Reflections of a working-stiff

You know, by and large, I'm liking my job. The pay's not to far north of minimum wage, but a day's hours (usually) are south of a full eight. Door-to-door is probably about seven hours, which I don't mind at all. Also, I like driving and my passengers range from distant to friendly; thus far, only one whom I would qualify as an actual prick (though most of them could use some lessons about tipping).

It doesn't hurt that the boss seems to be one to treat his employees as people, rather than "human resources". In my case, as someone who gets to work either by bike or public transit, he's made a point of ensuring that I get a ride home if it's especially late or especially cold (sometimes, in truth, I'd have preferred to ride, but felt it would have been churlish to say "no").

Rather revealingly — at least, I think it's revealing; does a sample of five or six out of maybe twenty drivers qualify as significant? — all of the co-workers I've had the chance to question have been with the company for years. Five years stands as the shortest stint so far. And further, with one exception so far, they've all gone out of their way to emphasize that they think it's a good place to work and that they like the boss. All of which suggests that my positive experience is the norm, not an exception.

So. Job. I like it, as jobs go.

Not that it's all open roads and scantilly-clad flight pilots.

Last Thursday saw me get back to Ottawa physically tired and my arms actually kind of sore.

It was our first real winter storm and I was very happy to find myself driving the boss' four-wheel drive SUV rather than a standard passenger van.

The trip to Montreal wasn't too bad. Snow and wind, only three cars in the ditch, and only an extra half-hour on the standard two-hour drive. But the trip back?

Mercy.

Snow. Rain. Freezing rain. More snow. Lunatic transport trucks roaring past with 15 or 20 centimetres between their vehicles and mine. Eight (count 'em!) cars in the ditch. Two-hour drive took four hours, and I arrived back in the office to have some of my co-workers questioning my employer's sanity.

Me, I just shrugged. It's not that dangerous, if you slow the fuck down — which, obviously, I did.

Meanwhile, talking to flight attendants has me (and Raven) contemplating the possibility of making "Come fly with me" our respective mottos. Working 12 days out 30 has a definite appeal.

(The photo, by the way, was taken by my passenger on the way to Montreal, as we crossed over the Lac des deux montagnes to get onto the Island.)