Hussy

Another adorable Frodo story:

Last night, at close, I had to run from returns to customer service. When I got there, Frodo asks me, "So are you a natural redhead or what?"

Because, apparently, working with me for 10 years, he'd never noticed before. Duh.

I just laughed. He sez, "Yeah, I thought so."

Since he knows my Aunt--she of the asshole questioning--I tell him a funny story.

When I first started coloring my hair red, my aunt comes to the Howler's birthday party and sez, "What in the haaaaillll did you do to your hair?"

I sez, "Why? Don't you like it?"

"You look like a goddamned hussy."

I laugh. She asks My Sweetie what he thinks of it, and he says he likes me as a hussy. (bwhahahahahahahaha)

Later on, we go to visit his family, and when I get out of the car, his father sez, "Oh." snort "I din know he liked redheads."

"Waaaallll, he likes this one!" big smile.

I confide to My Sweetie that his Ol' Man had a run-in with a redhead, and therefore, doesn't like 'em. I confide same to my mother-in-law. Neither of them know anything about it.

A year or so later, I get a phone call from my mother-in-law, informing me that they were going through some old pics of when the Ol' Man was in the service...and found pics of this woman who dun him wrong. She was a redhead.

HAH!

You Know You Love Me

So, at close of business tonight, Frodo has this approved employee purchase to make. I scan the crap, and he has his discount card out, ready to roll.

He sez, "Dammit! You're gonna need an override."

I tell him, "Nope. Give me your card."

He sez, "It's not really gonna matter."

I remind him, while rolling my eyes, "All employee sales are to have the card scanned."

Since the crap he was buying needed manually reduced, he suddenly remembers that our wonky system will jump the prices back up if you reduce 'em, then take the discount. He sez, "You'll have to re-do them."

I tell him, "Nope. Take the card first, then you don't."

He sez, "You're so excellent at this." as if this is a new fact.

I sez, "And that's why you love me."

He sez, "It's your lie, tell it how you want."

No, Really, You ARE Stupid

Today, Frodo came out to the garden center acting all Secret Squirrel. He tells me, in his special Secret Squirrel Voice, that since the Weasel has left the building, and he's now totally in charge, the garden center will be closing. (Oh, yeah, I was OUTSIDE!!!!!! Today. Mood much improved, thanks for asking)

So, I go inside. Supposed to go to Lumber (killmekillmenow) and Frodo pages me, while I'm switching into my indoor glasses (btw, those prescription shades are about fantastic! Nobody can see my eyes rolling!) to tell me that I'm to go to the front line instead.

I spent 6 hours outside with little to no freakiness showing up. Other than myself, I mean. I'm inside for all of 3 minutes, and I have BillyJoeJimBob talking to me about whether or not he would need the cooler/dispenser contraption for the 5 gallon jugs of water. And asking if I know 'bout how much them thar thingies wood cost." Er, uh, I'm sorry, I don't. I'm trying not to actually look at any living breathing person, because, honestly, when this guy starting asking me if I thought he could just buy the 5 gallon jug and use it without the dispenser thingy, I was about be all "HAH!" at this guy.

Now, the pure genius that is the Hellhole has a person at the customer service desk who doesn't have access to at least 50% of the screens she needs to do the job. So this increases my chances of freakiness finding me. She looks over at me, and asks if I can do the credit card application, because she doesn't have access. (When Frodo shows up, I tell him--that's right, I'm not asking--to get her the access she needs, if he's gonna put her at that desk. I may have said, "DUH" in there also.)

The credit card application process itself is fairly simple...provided you can remember your address. Unlike Contestant #1, who fills out his address wrong. The best part is the more I tried to find the phrasology that would clue him in to this, the more he said, "What do you mean?"

No, Really, Dude, You ARE Stupid.

Duh

So, Mr Skeeveriffic calls in to work last night.

First, let me say that while my phone manners aren't always what they should be, I don't open conversations with "Who is this?" and, for the record, I find that horribly annoying. Of course, Mr Skeevy does this when he calls.

Then he asks, "So, are we open on Thanksgiving?" Like having worked there for 3 years wouldn't have given him this information yet. We're closed 2 freaking days of the year--Thanksgiving and Christmas.

But then, given this opportunity to share the Skeeve, I answer his question with, "We normally are, but who knows this year? Let me send you to a manager."

And I do.

And I get to see said manager's face as he answers this question, while trying not to snort with laughter and roll his eyes.

Only thing in my whole night that made it worth staying upright!

Hell, More So Than Usual

Last night at work, it was definitely like it was my birthday. It sucked. I'd be more graphic, but I'm trying to get the image outta my head, so I won't be.

Anyway, we're so short staffed, Frodo & the Gnome are like Andre the Giant in height compared to what we've got going on. Seriously, there's very little to joke about in there right now.

I did, however, discover what was worse than dealing with Miss Pissy (she's massively unhappy with how/what management is doing to her right now--demoted her, dumped her onto register, but when she started she was at the Desk. Anyway.) What's worse than being boxed into the Return desk, blocked off from all normal modes of communication with the people who have access to the walkie the loader-guy carries and not being able to reach the copier?

Being boxed in and the other guy at the other desk--the guy with access to everything--not answering the phone--even when it's me trying to get his attention; he's not responding when I shout his name over the filing cabinet, and he's not looking at the 70 people lined up in front of me and doing NO THING to try to even help (no paging a code 3, no trying to get them over to his side of the desk) ...he's standing in front of the desk, watching for customers to check out. Because the phone looking like a Christmas Tree all lit up, and all those people at my desk are, of course, MY problem.

Meanwhile, I'm boxed in, trying to answer 14 phone calls that all take 10 minutes of listening to things like "oh, uh, Hi. I don't know what department I need; it's a thing I bought; can I return this thing; an order? No, it was delivered; I need to check on..." and all the while, several dozen very patient people are waiting their turn to get their money back. Oh, and then there was the guy who insisted that he could only ever possibly talk to one person, and no, he couldn't leave a message, but this is the 3rd time I've been put on hold, can I talk to...

It was Hell. I'm surprised I haven't actually cracked a tooth from grinding my teeth and clenching my jaw.

To their credit, store managers last night were trying to fill in the gaps--and were not all pissy and nasty (not even the Asshat.) God help me, I'm going back into this battlefield tonight.

Back in the Day

Used to be that in Retail Hell, job training involved them saying, "Here." and handing you stuff to figure out how to do it--then, if you guessed wrong, them getting the chance to snipe at you about it.

It also involved just getting sniped at, because, hell, that phone has about a billion buttons, and they all blink red, or green, in no discernable fashion. Telling me, "You're suppose to answer the phone by the 3rd ring!" and threatening to write me up for not answering it, was considered "excellent training."

Somehow, I've gotten to miss those days. Why? Because back in those days, you could also call up your zone manager and say, "Frodo, who do I need to blow to get a pen that works?"

None of that is permissible nowadays. And I miss that.

History, Part 2

As our story continues, in between this woman, "big D," and this next piece of work, there were a few other department managers. None worthy of note, mostly because they didn't last long, and because I didn't have problems with them, other than the usual run-of-the-mill stuff you expect when you work with other people.

Our focus turns to the lovely thing they gave me next.

She seemed okay, when she was parttime and working on the floor. But then she became department manager. And she apparently did what most women do when they get to be management: she worried most about authority, never mind being able to do the job(s) at hand.

She couldn't do a schedule. Not even the break board, which is the daily accounting of who is to be where and when they are to be there. It's not hard--from 7am to 9pm certain places need to have bodies present, and those bodies are given, at the mercy of the company and you, breaks.

One of her first big moves was way back when department managers were still salary employees. In other words, department managers were expected to stay, even *gasp* past their scheduled quitting time, if there was a hole that needed filled, or a problem that needed solved.

Again, we're approaching Thanksgiving, and I'm outside at the garden register. My Sweetie had called me around 4pm to let me know he was on his way home, and he could go get the Howler from daycare. I said it had been a pretty easy day, and last I checked, I'd be out on time. It was a Wednesday, because day care closed at 5pm. So, with a end time of 4:30, I'd have just enough time to make it to get her without being charge a bajillion dollars per minute past 5pm.

As I said, it was right before the holiday, and traffic was bad, even in our podunk city, and he'd have to come across town to get her. I was already there, and it shouldn't be a problem.

Fearless Leader, as she came to be known at my house, had other arrangements made. I'd already told her I needed to be out on time, because of the day care closing time. It's now 4:35pm and I gots no coverage. I need to go! I call Fearless Leader and she says my coverage is on it's way. At 4:45pm, I still gots no coverage. I call her again, and she says, "Oh, your coverage is a no-show, and I didn't know." I tell her I now have 15 minutes to get the out of the store and get to day care, while not far away, with traffic already heavy before the holiday, I'm never gonna make it.

I call my Sweetie, explain it to him, and wait. At 4:50pm, I call Fearless Leader again. Guess who, salary and all, punched out and left? Yeppers. I asked if she had called to find coverage for me before she left. I was asked, "Coverage? For what?"

To say I was steaming mad is an understatement.

I called the Manager on Duty, and began swearing like an angry & insane dock worker. Coverage finally shows.

I left that night, so mad I could barely see. She was salary! It was suggested to me that I talk with our latest store manager, a man who'd been with us only since June or July. Uh, no. I need to keep my job.

I documented and bit my tongue.

Fearless Leader never seemed to grasp the finer points of reading a schedule, let alone actually making one. She managed on nearly every occasion, to schedule me for the time I had approved time off requests for. She managed to be always giving dirty looks, snotty answers, and shortened lunches. She couldn't grasp the concept that if I was scheduled for 7 hours of work, it meant I had an hour lunch. No matter how many times she had it explained to her. She pulled the same "no coverage" trick for me with bathroom breaks. She also liked to stack my breaks up--in an 8 hour shift, I would have my 15 minute break, my hour break, and my 2nd 15 minute break all within 3 hours. And then she'd tell me if I didn't take them as she had 'em, then I could go without.

She also liked to tell me to do things that could potentially get me fired. She also liked to send people home at close--if they were scheduled to work till :45 past the hour and I was scheduled to work until the :30 past the hour, they'd go home first. She'd send droves of cashiers out the doors and tell me I had to go help flat stack lumber or some other crummy job. I would tell her, "Okay, send a couple cashiers with me." and she'd tell me to "just go home" in a disgusted tone. In other words, she'd want me--specifically me--to go to crap work no one was asking cashiers to do, but send everyone else home. She'd pack up and leave too. And there I'd be. Just me. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not playing the "female" card here, but I do take issue with someone singling me out and demanding that I be the only casher who was going to go do those things. She'd even send the guy cashiers and loaders out the door, so it wasn't a gender thing, it was a Mumple thing.

I have no idea how I ended up on her shit list, except that she, like the other one before her, figured out pretty quickly that store-level managers would walk past her to have me handle something--customer complaint or fix a transaction, or whatever. She probably also noticed that I had the respect of managers and co-workers alike. I didn't care if they didn't like me, it only mattered that they treated me with the respect I have earned.

Anyway, she also liked to play with schedule. Once, I had no less than 4 schedules--the one posted, the one she had, the one she gave me, and the one she used to do the break boards. She expected me (no lie!) to follow whichever one struck her fancy that day. Like I could read minds. Yeah, right. She also liked to play 'round with my schedule. If I had a requested day or time off, she'd wait until I was in the middle of a transaction (drawer open, customer yapping, etc) and need an answer right this second on whether or not I could change my schedule. I learned quickly to tell her that HER needing to know this second wasn't going to get answered unless she could wait. Even then, she'd tell me one thing, then write down another. So, I got to the point where I wouldn't agree to change my schedule for any reason. Not for her, anyway. She'd keep coming and asking, and God help me if I needed a change for any reason. God! that was the end of the freaking world! But she'd tell me to write it down, and then she'd screw it up.

She quit asking me to change my schedule when I started telling her SHE needed to write it down (faint fake smile, "I know I'll just write it down wrong") and then tell her that she needed to date it and sign it. Boy, she didn't like that one! But she started not fucking it up.

Then she decided to go back to the ol' weekly schedule. She ignored my time off requests, and she ignored my availability for a year. A WHOLE YEAR! No matter how many times I told her, no matter how many time anyone else told her. (btw, anytime the Head Cheese or Frodo would try to talk to her, she'd CRY, and they'd fall for it.) Finally, my vacation was due. I had time off requests for two weeks before my vacation, and for my vacation. She screwed up the time off before my vacation. I had learned to NOT go to her, and just go to Frodo. So he apparently went to her to have her fix it and since I had asked about my vacation...

She calls me, and asks me specifically about my vacation. Now, keeping in mind that she was so piss poor at doing the scheduling she had to have a special planner just for time off requests and availability (not just mine.) I can't tell you how many times she tried to tell me that if it wasn't in her book, I wasn't going to get it. I can't tell you how many times I carried those approved sheets with me for just such an occasion. I clarify my vacation for her. When that schedule came out, I wrote it down and put it on my calendar at home, then didn't think about it.

We left, of course, to visit the in laws for our vacation. I came home early because I had also planned to have the Toad's senior portraits done that week. I looked at the calendar when I got home and realized there was a mistake somewhere. Asssuming that it was my mistake, I head to the store to get my schedule copied down correctly. I didn't copy it wrong, I really was on the schedule to work that weekend. I stomped to the front desk, asked the MOD to get the time off request folder, checked that they did, indeed, have those nifty little papers. They did. I was taken off those days.

I waited, and the crap continued. Every time I thwarted her, she got pissy with me. Every time, I kept my ranting to one person--the Go-To Guy, aka Frodo. He was relatively useless. He inspired a good many rants here, too.

Finally, the day came when I could bear it no longer. She screwed up my availability AGAIN. I told her the schedule was wrong, she naturally got pissy with me. She also stated, "I did not know that." and I, of course, at my limit, snapped, "I've told you myself EVERY MONTH for a YEAR. Why don't you know it?"

Ah. She went to the HR person and asked about my availability. HR didn't check the right one, and told her, "No, that's not there." I went and checked with HR myself. HR did check the correct one that time, and let her know. I spilled my guts to HR at that point. She asked if I had all of this written down, knowing full well that I did. When I got back to my register, there was a pissy little note from Fearless Leader about my availability. Ah.

So, in the end, my documenting this insanity has gotten me a few things: my sanity. I can think there's a pattern, but until I actually write it out, I just THINK there's one. Writing it out lets OTHERS see it as well. It's also saved my job.

Whenever things get ugly, I've got dates, times, and my penchant for writing has also allowed me to remember and write down what's said.

It's also allowed me to learn from my own mistakes--I learned the first time to go to one (possibly two) managers each and every time. Even if I have to wait until I can. To approach the situation from the POV of "What am I doing that's adding to this problem?" It helps cover my own behind, but it also doesn't scream that I'm looking for a fight.

Fearless Leader is also the one who wanted to ring out her own purchases on my log in. She just don't learn.

Lately though, I'm getting a low-grade vibe from another woman manager. Like she just can't quite bring herself to treat me totally with respect, but she can't quite bring herself into an all-out problem with me. I could really do without her snippy tone, and her telling me off when there's a problem with my schedule, like availability, or if something comes up like the Howler's musical thing and the first grade conferences. If I could convince the school to give me a month's notice, I'm sure nobody would approve those time off requests right now, anyway. But that's a different story, and since it's not even close to having an ending yet, you'll have to wait on it.

Oh, and the purpose of this? The cumulative effect of all this? I'm hyper sensitive to break and scheduling snafus. I'm hyper sensitive to whenever my end of shift needs aren't met. I'm hyper sensitive to pissy attitude and snotty comments from women managers.

And for the record, I'm not "sharp," "rough," or "mean" like I've been told I am. I'm actually quite mellow and easy going now. The fact that I find most people to be insufferably boring and stupid is not my fault--most people I work with are insufferably boring and stupid.

I wish I was allowed to wear a huge button that read, "I wouldn't be so mean if you weren't so stupid."

I'll also give a dollar to anyone who comes up with a plausible theory for why these women seem to glom onto me this way.

AHA!

Finally figured out why I've been so angry lately. (Okay, *lately* is a term I'm using loosely.)

I am under appreciated at work.

Of course, everyone is, but sometimes, doesn't it just bug the snot out of you? And you get mad because you're working hard (and working well) and nobody, but nobody, even notices? Or worse, they just figure you're supposed to be THIS freaking good at it, and get grumpy when you call attention to the fact that you are not only gloriously fabulous at your job, but that there's a truckload of slackers and jerks you're supporting. And the slackers are complaining about you--you're crushing the grading curve.

Taking off your shoe and bitch slapping them (whoever your *them* may be) isn't an option.

So you get a great big walloping case of PMS that lasts for 6 months. And it's not attractive, but there you are.

Then, by some miracle, somebody notices, and actually writes it down. Maybe they're compelled to do it because it's also time for your yearly review. But that doesn't matter. They've got good things to say, and nickels to back it up.

As it turns out, Mr. *nobody exceeds standards* Manager actually marks you as exceeding standards--without you having to mention it. He pointedly tells you that it's obvious to EVERY.ONE. EVER. that you exceed standards in this one area, and he HAD to mark it this year.

Then, he proceeds to tell you how many nickels you'll be getting this year. And, YEAH, BABY! It's the highest amount of nickels the company allows--but which, according to history, ain't nobody getting. For any reason.

And this year, you got 'em.

So, in spite of being on a raging PMS rant for 6 months, somebody decided to recognize the job you do--and to acknowledge that you are, in fact, a righteously excellent person to have on the job.

Yea, ME!

Where Are My Pennies?

First, being around people greatly increases my chances of seeing asses. I'm not talking about people behaving like asses--I'm talking about actually getting an eyeful of someone's naked ass.

The usual jokes aside, it's getting old.

I don't want to see the Original ButtCrack's crack. I don't want to see the Princess's crack. I don't want to see ANY.ONE's. ASS. Period. Not even the asses of people I like (and those, we all agree, ain't many.)

There. Is. Simply. No. Ass. I. Want. Or. Need. To. See.

And I'm running out of jokes to make about them. Full Moon, Say No To Crack...they're old. I need new material.

My husband suggests I keep a pocket full of pennies while at work. That, my friends, would probably be considered offensive.

My favorite part of this? The most recent time I got to see the Princess's ass, and I mentioned it to Frodo, he commented, "What? She bent over again?" (emphasis mine).

My point is this: Why the hell is my supervisor's supervisor using the word AGAIN when I mention having a view of her nekkid ass? There's something seriously wrong in the Land where I work--they demand that I tuck my shirts in and mind my manners, yet, this woman's pasty white ass can hang out and she needs told AGAIN to wear a pair of pants that covers it?

My attitude is a problem but a full view of her moon isn't? How TF does that work?

Am I the last rational person on the planet? Or is this one of those *man* things--you know, where as long as you're young and relatively cute, you can wear and do as you please...and those of us who aren't getting a woody looking at this view need to just pretend not to notice?

Is that what I need to do? Show off my ass or my tits, and make sure they're stuck in these men's faces?

They're crapping in their pants worrying about sexual harassment/discrimination, yet I have to look at woman-ass crack daily? Somehow, I think they missed part of the seminar--an important part.

And then they wonder why I'm so pissed off all the time. I'm counting the days until I get told I have "Penis Envy" again--but I'll tell you this much: even if I had a penis, I'd still not find the pasty white ass hanging out at work attractive.

I am seriously considering the pocketful of pennies thing--even if I don't toss them at the coin slots I see, perhaps I could just hand them out with a suggestion of where to put them.

Definition

So, last night at work was the first time I had to work, really, with this particular woman (no nick yet) after *the incident.*

The good news is, no one knows what exactly happened there, which is good--not because I'm embarrassed or ashamed, I just hate the Jr. Hi politics and I despise being talked about behind my back. To clarify: I don't care if you talk about me, but have the balls to say it to my face, or own up to it if I hear it otherwise; unfortunately, most people I work with simply do not have balls. Especially not the men, but I digress.

So, she seemed fine--no harm no foul--UNTIL I got a good look at the break board and starting doing my free-lance busywork thing. I was on the self checkouts (a sign of the apocalypse if you ask me). A boring place to be--and one attracts more stupidity and weirdness than usual.

I get it into my head that I will actually collect garbage and sweep. I need to find a push broom or a dust mop. I've done the sweeping gig with a regular broom and, uh, never again. I prefer to clean the toilets.

I also have to go on a fruitless search for garbage bags. I cover everywhere that they may be before I announce that there are none, and I need to pull some. I get the okay from Frodo, mostly because this woman isn't available for me to let her know.

After that, I got several passive-aggressive remarks about how much I talk. Sure, I talk a lot, but man, it's not like I was talking religion or politics. I was telling funny stories about the Weirdness Goddess I am. Nothing mean, either, just the conversational, observational ones.

I have narrowed down the problem--but at least now, I know what to watch for. *sigh* I really do not want to do this again.

Where's the Line?

Where is the line between customer and employee?

I believe I know where it is...and it all comes down to the ugly red vest.

If a body is wearing the ugly red vest (unlike bowling shirts, I see them as NEVER attaining any sort of punk/alternative fashion statement) then, and only during the time the vest is on the body, is that body to be considered an employee, co-worker, or associate. It's not a test, and yet it is.

There are people who fail this test. And it makes me wonder how often they fail the customer service test. Is there a hierarchy of service that is offered in degrees to people they judge to be in certain categories?

These are legitimate questions.

If at any given moment, a person is NOT wearing the ugly vest, but currently has the priviledge of looking that ugly for any number of hours in any given week, are they subject, if spending money, to a different standard than someone who has never worn that ugly vest, or who has managed to escape serfdom to the vest?

I think not.

People, when you're working retail, are to be classified into two categories: those who are currently wearing the uglies, and those who are not. Those who wearing the uglies are obligated to those who are not (regardless of vest priviledges) to provide consistant and fair customer service.

If someone with vest privileges is not currently on the clock and is in spending their money (or needing to get their money back) they should not be treated with LESS courtesy or shown LESS customer service than any other "joe off the street".

Period.

It makes me wonder, when this sort of thing happens, how do these co-workers REALLY treat the customers they come in contact with?

It probably wouldn't bother me so much, if this particular co-worker hadn't, in the past, tried to "give me hell" for this sort of thing. He gave me hell once (cornered me actually) about a customer whom I was unable to satisfy given the policies and my position. He will probably corner me again sometime next week about this.

Yes, I went over his head. I bought something, discovered it was broken, and given my "insider knowledge" it would have made it a logistical mess--not only do I not want to go through that myself, I don't want to drag anyone else through it either.

The wrong answer is "Then you can't bring it back until tomorrow."

So, naturally, I go to the guy who is going to help me find a solution to my problem. And he did. If that steps on Associate *A*'s toes, too bad. I suppose it makes me a bitch (or worse).

If I were a *real* customer, I'd have been dialing toll-free customer service lines complaining.

Again, I ask: What does he treat *real* customers like?

Too Much Time On My Hands

Obviously.



Last night, during my lunch break at work, I went McDonald's and got a Happy Meal. So far, that $4 bid against the food nazis has given me approximately 6 hours of giggling pleasure.



Here's why:
Frodo at the Dude Ranch on vacation.



Frodo hard at work, answering phones

Frodo at the geekfest that is a Star Wars Convention.

Frodo at his first job: McD's drive thru.

Frodo being attacked by a large, black, furrier-than-thou animal.

Seriously, though, this is Barry, from Bee Movie fame. With proper makeup, he looks remarkably like Frodo at work. So, last night, I had fun (and much laughing) at his expense. Today, however, the giggles paid off, and, as you can see, I have quite a creative little mind.

I might be out of a job soon.

Get Over It

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you still make a mistake. You read some thing (or someone) wrong and you've mistaken their behavior. Sometimes, it's wishful thinking and sometimes, it's just that they have, for whatever reason, their own hangups and you made a mistake.

It's a bitch.

I hate when I do that. It frustrates me, and that, in turn, makes me angry. Much like Bruce Banner, "you wouldn't like me when I'm angry." I don't go green and I don't have purple hair, but, it's still not attractive.

I stomp. I swear. I mutter. I don't like it.

And, it makes it worse when it's not something that I can just go up to that person and say, "Hey, jackass, WTF is the problem here?" I do realize that sometimes, okay, many times, talking may not fix things--and sometimes, talking would just dilute the issue further, or frustrate me further.

And, in this particular instance, it may not even be something that this person is aware that he's doing. He is just *like that*. Or maybe he does know, but he doesn't know how to change it; he may not want to change it.

Whatever.

It's also frustrating that I have to be honest here and admit that at least some of my anger is residual. It's not entirely caused by him, and it's not fair to dump it all on him--or anyone else for that matter.

I thought I'd resolved all this within myself.

That frustrates me too--that it creeps out of whatever crevice in my soul it's been hiding in. It makes me grit my teeth and my jaw hurts.

I'm trying very hard to not be bitter about this. But it is disappointing to discover that someone whom I trusted and respected isn't fully deserving of it. And it hurts that it's looks like it's because I'm a woman--if I were a man, I'd have his respect and his reaction(s) to problems I have would be different. (Of course, if I were a man, I wouldn't have some of the problems, so it'd be more of a win-win for him, if not for me.)

I have been making an effort to "Get over it" and let this not be what I live.

I'm learning from this. I can be hurt; I can be angry; I can be disappointed; but I do not have to be bitter. I do not have to have all that sticking out in lumps. And I do not have to believe (or accept) that it's okay. (Because it's not.) I deserve better; I've earned better.

And whether or not I have that respect from this person, it doesn't make me stupid for having believed that I did have it. It means that I'm human, and that I make mistakes.

What I am doing now is learning. I am learning how to not grit my teeth (my jaw really does hurt!). I am learning. I am better than this anger. I am better.

Sometimes, you don't get what you deserve. And sometimes, sometimes, you just realize that you will be okay anyway.

The Cowardly Lion

Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. (and yes, this is another rant)

I am disappointed.

Someone whom I respected and trusted has turned out to be unworthy of it.

I have realized that what I thought was respect was cowardice. And why is he so cowardly? Because, apparently, he is acutely aware that I have a uterus, and it, in his view, makes me unstable. Never mind the quality of work I do; never mind my integrity. All that matters is that I have to sit down to pee--no writing my name in the snow for this girl.

How did I realize this?

The latest in a long line of mis-communications and disappointing changes in my immediate supervisors caused me to discuss the changes with him. He acted like I was asking him "Do these pants make me look fat?" (Nevermind that I don't generally ask that question because I'm fully aware that my fat makes me look fat.)

He couldn't get away from me fast enough.

I had another reason to be angry the other day--I was outside, as I choose to be, but in 40 degree temps that lead me to need a heater that works. It's important to stress the *that works* part, because I had a heater--a heater that I have repeatedly told Burt Lahr couldn't heat a hot cup of coffee on a hot July afternoon.

My feet are cold and hurting, even though I was dressed for the weather, including thick hunting socks and my break is late. Not just a little to-be-expected late, but LATE. As in, probably not coming. I called to find out if it was actually coming, and got told "I'm covering this, I'll be out soon." Soon, apparently, is an hour from now.

The break did finally show up. I went inside, mad as a wet hen (which isn't attractive, and I hate being). My feet start to thaw. I go to where I know there was a heater earlier in the year. I cannot find it. Someone else asks me what's going on, and I tell her. SHE calls and tells them to get me a heater THAT WORKS.

A heater, that works, shows up. But not from the Cowardly Lion--he sends someone else.

How disturbing is it that I am supposedly respected, trusted, and appreciated, especially considering that I don't complain about the weather and rarely complain about how cold (or hot) I am outside, yet, in the 18+ months I have been telling the Lion that the heater does NOT work, it takes a state of high piss off and someone else telling him to get me a heater that will actually stave off the frostbite to get me a heater that works.

These two incidents coupled together show me that I am not respected--and that it's probably because ol' Burt is spending too much time thinking about the panties he's busy assuming are in a twist all the time.

How pathetic is that?

It also explains why, last year, he was totally unable to handle a situation that was rapidly becoming unbearable. I thought he just had some blind spot for that woman; now, I realize that it was a total and absolute inability to deal with effectively 1/2 the population.

All I have worked for is to be taken seriously, to be respected for the quality of work I do, and to be treated fairly. I don't run around acting like *a woman*, and I don't trot out my uterus AT ALL when I am at work. The closest I come to that is if I am in a foul hormonal mood, I may let others I work with know that, so if I don't seem friendly, they know it's not about them. That I've got a foul hormonal peri-menopausal body that we can all find revolting.

I strive to be at least as good, if not better, than the men in that building. I strive to keep my being a woman the last thing to consider when dealing with me. Apparently, it's not enough. Having visible breasts is a handicap, and that uterus? Well, that must be the cause for everything--especially the bad.

It pisses me off to no end to realize that not only does the Cowardly Lion not deserve my respect, but that he can't treat me as an equal because I am, horror of horrors, a WOMAN.

What a load of week old warmed by the summer sunshine shit.

Evil Arch-Villan

What do you do when you finally realize why someone seems familiar to you--coupled with a "gut instinct" that you do not like him?

First, let me say that the guy is a pusbag. He is a jerk--he deliberately goes about his life looking to find fault in others, usually in hopes of making himself look good. He does this by standing around, watching others in a heavy breathing, non-sexual way. He then critiques their work--whether or not he has his own work to do is beside the point.

He's annoying and short of saying he smells bad, I have to say he's one slimy back-stabbing a-hole.

He is also the Penguin incarnate.

Of course, once I mention this, everyone who knows him agrees, that yes, indeed, he does look like the Penguin. Mostly, he reminds me of the the personality of the '60's Batman series Penguin with the looks of the movie Penguin--except that he has shorter, cleaner hair and no visible flippers.

He is the Penguin. And my boss has been seredipidiously (if that's a word) voted as Batman. If that's not funny enough, my boss has no resemblance to any Batman I've ever seen. But, I have to admit, when thinking on my co-worker the Penguin, my boss is the only option for Batman.

My boss is also not currently speaking to me--he has rejected his superpowers and refuses to discuss the menace that is the Penguin.

I'm about to call the Commisioner and see if we can get him to answer the Batphone. If I can stop giggling long enough to dial.

If I Were Paranoid...

I'd really think that my manager was *out to get me*.

Okay, I am paranoid, BUT I work very hard to not let that be something that rules me. But, in this case, I think I need to start letting it have its way.

Why?

I'm on vacation this week. Yeppers. Any time my manager is doing the schedule, I have to watch it as soon as it comes out, to see if my time off requests and availability are being honored. She seems to have a complete and total mental block when it comes to me. I have my theories why, but again, they all lead back to my paranoia, and it's not attractive, so we don't go there unless we have to.

We currently do not have to.

Anyway, there was mistake on the schedule two weeks ago. Had to ask about it. I start with Super Manager, and VIOLA! She says that since I'm not "in the book", it can't be that it was approved. So, I ask the next guy in line. The Go-To Guy. Turns out, that YES, I was to be off that day--no reason I know of for why I'm not in "the book".

So, in getting it taken care of, it gets mentioned that it totally inconveniences Super Manager because another person was also given that day off. That, my friends, falls under the category of "Not Even Remotely My Problem" under the sub-heading "I Sooo Do Not Care".

I had also, at the time of speaking with The Go-To Guy, mentioned this week of vacation. Super Manager assures me that "It's in the edits, so there's no problem there." Which, apparently, in S.M. speak means, "I'll wait till you're thinking about your vacation and do something then."

Yeah, Baby. Here's where the paranoia kicks in.

Let's discount the suspected lying, the other crappy tricks that S.M. has played, the passive-aggressive comments AND the out-and-out violation of employee purchases policy on my name. Even if we do that, we're still left with the fact that while "the edits" are there, and I'm told "there are no problems", it turns out that for the weekend that ends my vacation, I'm on the schedule.

I don't notice until Thursday night. I go in to double check, thinking I must have written it down wrong.

No dice. Remarkably enough, I really really am right all the time with this. But, there are sneaking, conniving fish to fry here, and I don't have time to rejoice in this revelation.

In researching the problem, I am supposed to be off; I didn't screw up; I will be off.

IF I had waited, for any reason, to check and double check that schedule, I would have been a "No call; No show" and could reasonably expect to be written up--possibly "final warning"--or terminated outright on this.

Now, if I were to be running in full paranoia mode (which is a natural state for me, considering how I am the center of the universe and everyone is out to get me), this could look VERY harrassing and hostile.

Hmmmmm. Tell me again why am I shouldn't be paranoid?