Turns out that if you don't tell the whole truth, skew the *facts* to fit your cause, make up stuff, don't do your homework, but scream and cry and carry on, you still don't get what you want.
The special meeting is still on for tomorrow--Monday. She did send home announcements of the time--it came home on Friday. The asshole time of the special meeting is 5:45pm.
Stop and think! Parents who work different shifts--aka not a 9-5 office job aren't going to be there, because duh. They have to work. Parents who work 9-5 jobs aren't going to be there, because they have to pick up their kids at the babysitter's and get home to make supper. Stay at home parents aren't going to go because, duh, it's supper time.
Apparently, Miss Tantrum doesn't do supper hour at the time normal people have it. She also doesn't get that if she's running a mee-in, she shouldn't be having to scrape her kid off the floor, ceiling, bathroom walls, chairs, etc. And if she's too distracted to be paying attention (it's not entirely the kid's fault--she missed the nominations and he wasn't crawling up her leg at that time) during the meeting to what's being said, well, DUH, she shouldn't be running the mee-in, nor should she be pitching a holy-hell-fit when she A) doesn't know what's going on, and B)doesn't understand what's going on, and C) doesn't like what's been decided in her mental absence.
I'm sorry I have to work tomorrow, because I'm going to miss it.
Oh, and btw, 90% of what she's said (in person and in email) is BS, and what she has said that's truthful, is just pathetic.
Also, just because you ended up in a certain position, doesn't mean that you where "put" there--in this case, it means that you chose your friends, they lied to get you to sign up for something, then ditched you. The rest of us were stuck because we knew better than to trust what we were being told, and didn't want to be the one left holding the bag.
The fact that we're on to what's true now, and know what is going on and what needs to be done doesn't make us the bad guys--it just makes you pathetic, stupid, and fun to watch implode.
My Sweetie is correct. I do enjoy a good fight.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Sitting in the Cheap Seats
After working retail for these past 8.5 years, I have learned that grown ups will throw tantrums, and have made it my goal to NEVER EVER be the grown up pitching a fit.
But, like driving past a trainwreck and rubbernecking to see as much misery as possible, in joining the PTA, I have discovered what a true tantrum looks like.
I never expected to see it for myself, though. I figured that a lack of communication, 0 call backs, and being invisible would be the sum total of my experience.
I thought that simply going to the meetings, getting involved in what I wanted to get involved in and "sitting in the cheap seats, shining a spotlight on the stupidity" would be my PTA achievement.
Sometime between Christmas and now, I have become what the Weasel terms "a leader." At the time he said it, I balked.
I have come to embrace it (the comment, not the Weasel, duh) because, well, it's true. I don't say that because I'm patting myself on the back, or blowing my own horn. I say it because at some point in the not-so-distant past, I have stepped up and become.
How bizarre has it seemed that after a meeting where I propose a fundraiser and a support our school's library and reading ideas that I hear on a weekly basis how lucky the PTA is to have me. How bizarre is it people actively seek me out after a meeting, to volunteer their time, ideas, and help. How freaked out have I been?
V.E.R.Y.
In the past month, I was asked if I had put my name in the hat for nomination to any of the executive board positions. I did not. I said 6 months ago, that if nominated I will not run, and if elected I will not serve.
And God has struck me with lightning over it, and I have to rescind the statement. And oh, how I hate to do things like that.
After the meeting a week ago, I was nominated anyway. And, while it wasn't over my nomination, the shit hit the fan.
Miss Thang, who pronounces "meeting" as "mee-in", thought she would be given the Top Spot and when that didn't happen, she began warming up for a tantrum. When the warmup failed to produce the desired effect, she went into full-on psycho PTA mom and is now actively looking for an excuse to void the nominations (denying, as well, that I was nominated at all, the twit) and thinking that as acting president, she's going to call the shots, and get to choose who is nominated.
She's managed, like her friends before her, to offend a good many people--from not returning calls, to her lack of hard consonants, to this tantrum. Whatever happens with the nominations, she's not counting on the few of us who have figured out who did the work this year (and duh, it wasn't HER) and who have had enough of this Jr-Hi crap and will not only work for change, but demand it.
She, and her hell-bent for leather power tripping cronies, seem to have totally discounted me--I've been speaking up since a year ago January, and they still haven't declared war on me. Not that I've heard, and this PTA's grapevine has proven VERY reliable, VERY quick, and VERY fact based.
At work, I am constantly the object of contempt, even while trying to keep my head down. With the PTA, they're not even registering me.
Unless, my overall behavior has them intimidated: I continued to show up, even after being ignored repeatedly. I continued to show up, and even became more active when they called me someone else's name for several months. I laughed (but not a hysterical, manical laugh) when they suddenly learned my name and tried to convince me to be their secretary. Maybe they're just counting on my being a flake.
Either way, I'm still sitting in the cheap seats, kicking ass and taking names.
But, like driving past a trainwreck and rubbernecking to see as much misery as possible, in joining the PTA, I have discovered what a true tantrum looks like.
I never expected to see it for myself, though. I figured that a lack of communication, 0 call backs, and being invisible would be the sum total of my experience.
I thought that simply going to the meetings, getting involved in what I wanted to get involved in and "sitting in the cheap seats, shining a spotlight on the stupidity" would be my PTA achievement.
Sometime between Christmas and now, I have become what the Weasel terms "a leader." At the time he said it, I balked.
I have come to embrace it (the comment, not the Weasel, duh) because, well, it's true. I don't say that because I'm patting myself on the back, or blowing my own horn. I say it because at some point in the not-so-distant past, I have stepped up and become.
How bizarre has it seemed that after a meeting where I propose a fundraiser and a support our school's library and reading ideas that I hear on a weekly basis how lucky the PTA is to have me. How bizarre is it people actively seek me out after a meeting, to volunteer their time, ideas, and help. How freaked out have I been?
V.E.R.Y.
In the past month, I was asked if I had put my name in the hat for nomination to any of the executive board positions. I did not. I said 6 months ago, that if nominated I will not run, and if elected I will not serve.
And God has struck me with lightning over it, and I have to rescind the statement. And oh, how I hate to do things like that.
After the meeting a week ago, I was nominated anyway. And, while it wasn't over my nomination, the shit hit the fan.
Miss Thang, who pronounces "meeting" as "mee-in", thought she would be given the Top Spot and when that didn't happen, she began warming up for a tantrum. When the warmup failed to produce the desired effect, she went into full-on psycho PTA mom and is now actively looking for an excuse to void the nominations (denying, as well, that I was nominated at all, the twit) and thinking that as acting president, she's going to call the shots, and get to choose who is nominated.
She's managed, like her friends before her, to offend a good many people--from not returning calls, to her lack of hard consonants, to this tantrum. Whatever happens with the nominations, she's not counting on the few of us who have figured out who did the work this year (and duh, it wasn't HER) and who have had enough of this Jr-Hi crap and will not only work for change, but demand it.
She, and her hell-bent for leather power tripping cronies, seem to have totally discounted me--I've been speaking up since a year ago January, and they still haven't declared war on me. Not that I've heard, and this PTA's grapevine has proven VERY reliable, VERY quick, and VERY fact based.
At work, I am constantly the object of contempt, even while trying to keep my head down. With the PTA, they're not even registering me.
Unless, my overall behavior has them intimidated: I continued to show up, even after being ignored repeatedly. I continued to show up, and even became more active when they called me someone else's name for several months. I laughed (but not a hysterical, manical laugh) when they suddenly learned my name and tried to convince me to be their secretary. Maybe they're just counting on my being a flake.
Either way, I'm still sitting in the cheap seats, kicking ass and taking names.
Open for Your Amusement
The garden center is now open--limited hours, of course, but at least it's open.
I am happy.
I have been working on being less grumpy. Nobody's really noticed. I've been working on not being quite so harsh about the stupidity of my coworkers, at least, while I am at work.
Anyway, I wear my lovely orange and am quite content in the 40 degree (and sometimes lower) March temps. I don't mind the rain, the wind, or the snow flurries on the first day of spring. I am happy.
Of course, certain Know-It-Alls have to comment on my attire. But I have managed to not snap out on them, as I usually do, and have mostly-politely explained that it's one thing to be out in the 40 degrees and windy garden center when you have the immediate option of going inside, and quite another when you're out there, with toothpicks and saranwrap, sans door, for upwards of 2 hours (and sometimes longer) before having the opportunity to head inside where there is real heat, and little windsheer.
And, honestly, the orange is all the rage in Paris this season. ~eyeroll~
But, of course, there are a few nutjobs out there coming to see me. And I'd just like to ask, yet again, what is it with you people, hanging baskets, and stupidity?
Yesterday, while standing in my glorious register shelter to avoid the rain, a woman approaches me, hold up a hanging basket of pansies, jiggles it, and says, "Are you using this out here?"
At first, I just looked at her--I know I just had a blank look on my face, because I can think of no active use for a hanging basket of pansies.
She asks again, "Do I have to pay for this inside?"
I respond, "No, that's what I'm here for."
She gets pissy with me, and says, "I was only trying to be polite!" To which I'm thinking, "No, honey, you're only trying to be stupid." I didn't say it, though.
I am happy.
I have been working on being less grumpy. Nobody's really noticed. I've been working on not being quite so harsh about the stupidity of my coworkers, at least, while I am at work.
Anyway, I wear my lovely orange and am quite content in the 40 degree (and sometimes lower) March temps. I don't mind the rain, the wind, or the snow flurries on the first day of spring. I am happy.
Of course, certain Know-It-Alls have to comment on my attire. But I have managed to not snap out on them, as I usually do, and have mostly-politely explained that it's one thing to be out in the 40 degrees and windy garden center when you have the immediate option of going inside, and quite another when you're out there, with toothpicks and saranwrap, sans door, for upwards of 2 hours (and sometimes longer) before having the opportunity to head inside where there is real heat, and little windsheer.
And, honestly, the orange is all the rage in Paris this season. ~eyeroll~
But, of course, there are a few nutjobs out there coming to see me. And I'd just like to ask, yet again, what is it with you people, hanging baskets, and stupidity?
Yesterday, while standing in my glorious register shelter to avoid the rain, a woman approaches me, hold up a hanging basket of pansies, jiggles it, and says, "Are you using this out here?"
At first, I just looked at her--I know I just had a blank look on my face, because I can think of no active use for a hanging basket of pansies.
She asks again, "Do I have to pay for this inside?"
I respond, "No, that's what I'm here for."
She gets pissy with me, and says, "I was only trying to be polite!" To which I'm thinking, "No, honey, you're only trying to be stupid." I didn't say it, though.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Mr Mumple Ponders
"Does anyone else think that she spends entirely too much time on this shit, and doesn't she have better things to do--like laundry?"
Corporate Mortification
Years ago, before our store opened, part of the reprogramming we peons received was the Mandatory Morning Meeting.
Mostly, it was for the then-management team (a group of chauvinistic narcissists with 25+ years of management experience in this collective cluster fuck) to listen to themselves yap about how great and glorious the Company is. We did it, and we weren't quite so embarrassed, probably because most of us knew most of us weren't going to be around in a few short weeks. Probably, we figured, none of us were going to survive this Brave New World.
The indoctrination meetings included the dreaded (and here-to-fore only talked about as urban legend) Company Cheer. It's origins begin in Hell, as a way to break down the strongest of souls. It's journey to us involved numerous blood sacrifices and souls sold into slavery. It's current incarnation is showcased at 7:30am (that means there are CUSTOMERS in our store at the time it's going on) and it is beatifically loud throughout the store.
The ritualistic slaughter of dignity and self-respect begins with a large group of people donning garish clothing--in this case, vests or aprons with their master's name emblazoned on front and back.
Not unlike the druids gathering at Stonehenge, they gather in a circle under the early morning lighting displays. A hush falls over the crowd.
Soon, a man emerges and steps into the center of the group. He smiles an evil smile, searching for today's sacrifice.
He calls a name, and the victim timidly steps forward. His peers gape, in hope, in fear, in disgust.
He begins the rite. Clap. Clap. Clap. Soon, rhythmic clapping fills the aisles. "Gimme an L" he shouts. The overlord priest nods. He is satisfactory.
Continuing to spell out the name of the Company, the others "gimme" whatever he asks.
The meeting breaks up--each man, woman, and child walking away embarrassed, oddly exhilarated, and mortified--each has made a complete jackass of him- or herself, and all for a few shekels a week.
The ritualistic murder of our souls ended as the store opened--mostly because with the coming of the customer, we were too shy to let it be known that we had sold our souls to corporate America Satan.
Recently, though, the sacrifice of dignity and self respect has been resurrected--in part, I presume, because our store manager (not quite the cluster fuck we began with, but, still...) has recently returned from his Persophone-like Hades induced sojourn in the underworld, and he is determined, yet again, to bend those of us still showing some signs of life to his will.
Luckily, I have avoided said bloodlettings because, well, that strapping me to the register certainly restricts my movements, the free flowing blood, and my ability to clap in rhythm with 15 other peon cum victims.
I have been spared, but for what purpose?
Mostly, it was for the then-management team (a group of chauvinistic narcissists with 25+ years of management experience in this collective cluster fuck) to listen to themselves yap about how great and glorious the Company is. We did it, and we weren't quite so embarrassed, probably because most of us knew most of us weren't going to be around in a few short weeks. Probably, we figured, none of us were going to survive this Brave New World.
The indoctrination meetings included the dreaded (and here-to-fore only talked about as urban legend) Company Cheer. It's origins begin in Hell, as a way to break down the strongest of souls. It's journey to us involved numerous blood sacrifices and souls sold into slavery. It's current incarnation is showcased at 7:30am (that means there are CUSTOMERS in our store at the time it's going on) and it is beatifically loud throughout the store.
The ritualistic slaughter of dignity and self-respect begins with a large group of people donning garish clothing--in this case, vests or aprons with their master's name emblazoned on front and back.
Not unlike the druids gathering at Stonehenge, they gather in a circle under the early morning lighting displays. A hush falls over the crowd.
Soon, a man emerges and steps into the center of the group. He smiles an evil smile, searching for today's sacrifice.
He calls a name, and the victim timidly steps forward. His peers gape, in hope, in fear, in disgust.
He begins the rite. Clap. Clap. Clap. Soon, rhythmic clapping fills the aisles. "Gimme an L" he shouts. The overlord priest nods. He is satisfactory.
Continuing to spell out the name of the Company, the others "gimme" whatever he asks.
The meeting breaks up--each man, woman, and child walking away embarrassed, oddly exhilarated, and mortified--each has made a complete jackass of him- or herself, and all for a few shekels a week.
The ritualistic murder of our souls ended as the store opened--mostly because with the coming of the customer, we were too shy to let it be known that we had sold our souls to corporate America Satan.
Recently, though, the sacrifice of dignity and self respect has been resurrected--in part, I presume, because our store manager (not quite the cluster fuck we began with, but, still...) has recently returned from his Persophone-like Hades induced sojourn in the underworld, and he is determined, yet again, to bend those of us still showing some signs of life to his will.
Luckily, I have avoided said bloodlettings because, well, that strapping me to the register certainly restricts my movements, the free flowing blood, and my ability to clap in rhythm with 15 other peon cum victims.
I have been spared, but for what purpose?
Sunday, March 08, 2009
All Things Wise
It was Spring Ahead time last night--and everyone except those in Nevada know it.
We, the Mumples, generally set the clocks ahead (or back) at bedtime. That is, currently, between 9pm and 10pm.
My phone rings last night around 6:30pm. It's the Gator, and she's yapping on about Daylight Savings Time. She proceeds to tell me, no less than 4 times in 4 minutes, to remember to reset ALL the clocks in our house. ALL the clocks--the one on the coffee pot, the alarm clock, the stove, the microwave...wait. She forgot to remind me of the station clock in the hallway (cleverly hung so it is easily visible from either the front or the back hall,) the ones in the Howler's playroom and bedroom, and the one in the living room.
(I know it's an insane number of clocks, but seriously, some of them aren't our choice, and the VCR clock has NEVER been set. No lie.)
Anyway, since she did not hear me obviously changing the times as-we-speak, she proceeded to explain to me that "Spring Ahead" means to set the clocks AHEAD one hour...and that if I don't do it RIGHT. NOW. I'll be late for everything tomorrow.
"Everything tomorrow" implies that I have a fully loaded social calendar. It also implies that the everything I will be late for will cause the earth to stop rotating, and there may be a life-threatening rip in the space time continuum.
Guess what? I didn't reset the clocks RIGHT NOW and fully half of the clocks got changed today. And I was as late as I always am for church--about 5 minutes. Oh, and there was, to the best of my knowledge, no shifts in the earth, it's gravitational pull, the sun was up (mostly, we had rain) as usual, and no space time continuum issues hit town.
It's a good thing I have her to explain things like Spring Ahead Daylight Saving time. If I didn't God alone what kinds of trouble I'd be having.
We, the Mumples, generally set the clocks ahead (or back) at bedtime. That is, currently, between 9pm and 10pm.
My phone rings last night around 6:30pm. It's the Gator, and she's yapping on about Daylight Savings Time. She proceeds to tell me, no less than 4 times in 4 minutes, to remember to reset ALL the clocks in our house. ALL the clocks--the one on the coffee pot, the alarm clock, the stove, the microwave...wait. She forgot to remind me of the station clock in the hallway (cleverly hung so it is easily visible from either the front or the back hall,) the ones in the Howler's playroom and bedroom, and the one in the living room.
(I know it's an insane number of clocks, but seriously, some of them aren't our choice, and the VCR clock has NEVER been set. No lie.)
Anyway, since she did not hear me obviously changing the times as-we-speak, she proceeded to explain to me that "Spring Ahead" means to set the clocks AHEAD one hour...and that if I don't do it RIGHT. NOW. I'll be late for everything tomorrow.
"Everything tomorrow" implies that I have a fully loaded social calendar. It also implies that the everything I will be late for will cause the earth to stop rotating, and there may be a life-threatening rip in the space time continuum.
Guess what? I didn't reset the clocks RIGHT NOW and fully half of the clocks got changed today. And I was as late as I always am for church--about 5 minutes. Oh, and there was, to the best of my knowledge, no shifts in the earth, it's gravitational pull, the sun was up (mostly, we had rain) as usual, and no space time continuum issues hit town.
It's a good thing I have her to explain things like Spring Ahead Daylight Saving time. If I didn't God alone what kinds of trouble I'd be having.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
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