Get Outta My Fuckin' House, Douchebags!

As any of you who have ever moved even once in your life know, there's a lot involved in packing the joint up and getting the fuck out. You've gotta transfer all your utilities over to the new place. You've gotta arrange for a moving van and friends to help you transfer all of your belongings from one locale to the next. There's a shit-ton of crap to do, and that's on top of all the packing and cleaning and going to work and otherwise maintaining your life and sanity through it all.

When you move into a house that you've just purchased, it's helpful to have a second walk-thru to determine practical little details like, "Will we need more phone jacks?" or "Will our sofa fit this space? And if not, where is it more likely to fit?"

We asked our realtor, the dynamic Helen Ross O'Donoghue, to request a second walk-thru from the people currently living in our new house. Initially, they said yes and scheduled it for today, around 1:00 p.m. Then about a week ago or so, they all of a sudden said "No!" and, to make it even more inconvenient, informed their realtor (who, to her credit, seemed kind of embarrassed) that we couldn't get in until after they had vacated the joint around April 28th.

They didn't give any reason, just "No". J. thinks maybe they caught wind that we're Friends of Dorothy's and decided to be difficult because they can. I prefer to think that they're just douchebags, but the end result is the same. We don't get to see the inside of our house again until a few days before closing, which I think is bullshit.

Outta Here!

It's official: my replacement has been hired and starts on Monday. I start my new position on Wednesday!

WOOT!

That means that as of Tuesday, I don't ever need to deal with that piece of shit inserter machine from Satan ever again.

No more endless hours counting and date stamping shit tons of stupid mail.

No more taping EOBs to the insides of envelopes so that the address lines up properly with the envelope window.

No more grunt work, hauling all the heavy crap that the SSM can't be arsed to do because she's SSM.

No more making dozens of stupid member packages (doesn't that sound dirty?), and all of the attendant photocopying, etc.

No more hours doing Eligible letters, using a broken letter opener to fold the thick booklet, because SSM is too cheap to put them in larger envelopes that don't require folding.

No more filing. Of any description.

I might still have to pull claims occasionally, but I don't mind that: it'll help to keep me in shape.

But for the most part, the drudgery is finally finished. Onward and upwards, as they say.

Reason Number 47...

...why I need to get the hell out of the mailroom.

So we're sitting in the mailroom today, doing our usual thing opening, sorting and ditributing tons of stupid mail, when a woman we've never seen before appears in the doorway.

She says, "Hi. I was told to come here for supplies. I need some sticky notes."

So S. gets up and gives her some sticky notes from the locked cupboard.

When the woman was gone, I said, "Who the hell was that?"

It's not uncommon to see unfamiliar faces in the office, since the company has hired a lot of temps to help us catch up on the backlog of claims.

S. replied, "I dunno."

Then the Senior Staff Member, who is a bit of a control freak, said to Sandy in a reproving tone, "You gave her supplies and you don't know her?"

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, "It was sticky notes, not a handjob, fer Chrissakes", but wisely kept my mouth shut.

When the SSM left the room, I said to S., "Jeez, S., what were you thinking? Giving office supplies to strangers? Don't you know a stapler in the wrong hands can lead to fatal tasering?"

(This joke will only be meaningful to Canadians, I'm afraid).

Anyway, it's just that kind of weirdness tha makes me glad I am out of the mailroom in 12 days, come hell or high water.