A Pineapple In the Ass

And no lube in sight!

So the temp agency that employs me on behalf of the transportation company does not have direct deposit. Therefore, if I do not pick up my cheques, they are mailed to my house. Ordinarily, this is not a problem. For almost a year now, the cheques have arrived promptly in my mailbox once a week.

Then in August, I realized that I hadn't seen a paycheque in a few weeks. So I went through my records and saw that I hadn't yet received my cheque from July 30, nor a couple in August, either. A week earlier, I had been told that they were 'in the mail".

On Wednesday, the one from the end of July arrived. I called the agency and was told the other two were still in the office. I told the woman to hold on to them and I would pick them up (as I had done a few times in the past) after work.

Yet when I arrived, the office was locked up and there were no cheques on the door (which is the usual procedure). Infuriated, I went home and called the agency to advise her that I would be there Friday morning around 9:00 to get my pay and would advise the transporation company that I would be late as a consequence.

I then wrote to Teeth, Big Head Office Lady and Springsteen (who is on holidays this week). I told them that I hadn't been paid and that if I didn't, for whatever reason, receive my cheques Friday morning, I would not be in to work because I'm not a volunteer.

So this morning, I dropped The Little Hunnydoo off at work and by 8:45 I was at the agency. Locked up, no cheques. I went and had some breakfast and was back at the agency by 9:15. Still locked, still no cheques and the office is supposed to be open by 8:30.

I came home. No message from the agency, but a nice email from Head Office Lady saying that if I still haven't received my pay, the transportation company will not pay the temp agency and steps will be taken to compensate me directly. So I called and left a message on her voice mail, describing my morning's adventures. I have yet to hear back from anyone.

And the thing is, Springsteen is away this week until the 30th. Head Office Lady and her boss were in the office from Monday until Wednesday and neither one of them called me in to give me an offer letter or anything. I mean Springsteen, keeps saying, "We're working on it," and "When it happens you won't have to wait three months for benefits," but I'm not seeing any forward movement here.

Yanno?

And boy, am I pissed off.

UPDATE: Less pissed off. Called the employment agency at 10:30 a.m. to find the woman just getting in. She said she would courier the cheques to my house, but as the conversation progressed, this changed to her dropping the cheques off after work and her not knowing what time that would be. I started to suspect it wouldn't happen (again), so I volunteered to go down to the office onr more time to pick the cheques up. I was successful in my quest and within ten minutes of getting them, they were deposited into my account.

I went into work after that, but Teeth said she was under the impression that I wouldn't be in at all today, so they had cancelled my veggie pizza (it's Pizza Day today) and ordered another meat one. (Apparently, they're all carnivores there. Go figure). So given that it was 11:30 and I could expect no lunch and Wolf Woman offered to do what few bills I had in my queue, I took the rest of the day off.

So anyway, I'm paid. 

And the other news is that Head Office lady assures me that she is 99% finished the hiring process from her end and hopefully by September 1st, I will be working for them instead of the temp agency.

The Handicap Is Not Necessarily Physical

Yesterday, I was extremely confrontive with a woman at the bank. I'd had a productive, but slightly frustrating day at work and I was in no mood to deal with anymore self-indulgence or senses of entitlement (other people's, that is).

So when this fucking douchecanoe in an SUV pulled into the handicapped stall without a stucker permitting her this privilege, I was already primed for her. I watched her get out of the SUV and give a bowl of something to her friend in the SUV parked next to her, before she came into the bank and took her place in line behind me in front of the ATMs.

I looked at her and said, "You know that's a handicapped stall."

"Yes," she said.

"You don't have a sticker," I observed. 

She avoided eye contact. "It's inside (the car)," she replied.

Normally, I would have left it at that, allowing her to wallow in her shame and the knowledge that she had been caught in a lie.

But yesterday, I just couldn't.

So I said

"You are so full of shit."

She clicked her tongue, sighed and rolled her eyes. But she didn't argue with me. And that's key.

Stupid yuppie bitch. God forbid you should ever actually need to use one of those parking stalls legitimately, you twunt.

Never Volunteer For Anything

Months ago at a staff meeting, Springsteen and Head Office Lady indicated that they were looking for volunteers to take over one of the billing tasks currently assigned to the biller known informally as Hitler, because she was being trained on other things. I foolishly raised my hand. I naively thought that this would indicate my willingness to invest in the company and make it more likely for them to hire me on permanent full-time. (And we all know how THAT has panned out, don't we?)

I started training for the new task (which I shall refer to as The Bullshit) in June and realized very quickly why all of the other billers sat on their hands and avoided making eye contact with Head Office Lady. At one point last week, I went into Springsteen's office and said, "I don't think I can do This Bullshit anymore." I almost left the building. Honest to Gawd, it's too complex to get into in detail here: let's just say that we better be making a metric fuck-ton of money off of these customers, because the process for invoicing these bills is fucking ridiculous. All That Bullshit is in the top five reasons why I am seeking employment elsewhere. It's complicated, it's boring, it's an unweildy process and I've had to do it all myself because Hitler is working from home so she can care for her terminally ill mother ("I have to wipe her bum." Actual quote. Again, what is it with this office and the lack of boundaries surrounding personal information???)

Furthermore, it was a little galling to see my old task go to The Cub.

But you know, sometimes when you want something badly enough, your prayers are answered.

On Sunday, the Cub was in a car accident. She's not badly hurt at all, but her doctor has ordered her to be off work for the next ten days. And then she starts school to upgrade her high school. (She wants to be a NURSE!) Convenient, huh? Not hurt, no whiplash, but off work for ten days and then school! Hmmmm...well, I smell something rotten in the state of Denmark, but I'm NOT COMPLAINING.

Because it means I get my old work back.

And Hitler has to take The Bullshit back, at least for the forseeable future.

I confess, I am a little disappointed that I won't be seeing The Cub again any time soon. Not that I enjoyed her vapid conversation, her constant fucking the dog or her loud hiccupping several times a day (followed invariably by juvenile sniggering. Srsly).

It's just that recently, I learned that if one scratches a message into the surface of a banana with a toothpick, overnight the wounds darken to reveal the message. I was hoping to start leaving messages on her fruit like

YOU'RE NEXT

and

I SEE YOU

as well as

BIMBO

or

SLUNT

Of course, although The Cub is gone, Teeth and Two Clowns remain to plague my days, and I am very happy to accept suggestions from you, dear readers, regarding messages that could be scratched into THEIR fruit.

Email Hijinks

Lately at work, The Cub has been driving everyone absolutely nuts. Just turned eighteen, this is her first "real" job, and her age shows. She's constantly booking off time to go to concerts, comes in late four mornings out of five, dicks around texting when she should be working and is the object of much male attention. There is always at least one, sometimes two, young guys buzzing around her desk like hopeful bees waiting for the flower to nod in their direction.

One of the dispatchers is especially sweet on her. In typical high school flirty fashion, he opened Word on her screen earlier this week and wrote, "LOSER" in 72 point Ariel.

She screamed at him in that faux-indigantion tone girls her age use and stalked off. When the coast was clear, I walked over to her desk and added, "BUTTMUNCH" to the page.

When she discovered that, she ripped the dispatcher a new one. But she didn't close the program.

So when she wandered off to check her hair in the washroom or file something incorrectly, I went to her desk again and added, "BACK ALLEY CRAP MUFFIN."

It didn't matter what the dispatcher said, she was convinced it was him. I had a really good time at work that day.

For the past week and a half, she's been obsessing over the tattoo that she plans to get  on her foot this weekend. She's been asking a lot of questions, like "Can I go drinking afterwards?", "Will they tie my foot down so it doesn't jump around?" and "Will it bleed?"

We've heard about as much about that fucking tattoo as we can stand. So this afternoon, when she went for lunch (for which she was missing for an hour and a half, when the rest of us get half an hour), I pulled up her email and sent this to all the billers and Springsteen:

Subject: Available Now!

Okay, so like in order to help pay for my wikked new tattoo, I've had to start a little job on the side. For a limited time only, I will be selling and intalling inflatable nuns! Perfect for the home, garden or work, inflatable nuns make a perfect gift for that hard-to-by-for someone in your life!

Please contact me for rates and prices!

Thanks, like, a lot, 'kay?

The Cub

In the meantime, her mother (NOT in on the joke), told the Biller I Like that she feels bad for The Cub, cuz she's "trying really hard" (srsly?) and was chagrined because "now I'm gonna hafta buy one."

When The Cub sauntered in from her extended lunch, she was initially unaware of the email, until Springsteen called her into her office and said, "You're kidding, right?"

So, The Cub naturally blamed the dispatcher who has been hitting on her for two weeks now, but after he vociferously denied any involvement, she sent out this response (and this is copied directly from her email):

Soo guys, please disregard this email, this was NOT ME. Im not sure who was messing around with my email, but its NOT TRUE .

Thank you ,

The Cub.

Confusion? Mayhem? Disorder?

My work here is done.

At the Water Cooler

Springsteen and I, alone in the staff room Thursday morning last week.

Me: So, is Two Clowns a manager here?

Springsteen: She sure likes to think so.

Me: Well, what does she do?
Springsteen: She enters the rates into the system so you know what to pay the drivers and charge the customers.
Me: And she helps to establish those rates as well?
Springsteen: No, she just enters them.
Me: So, are you telling me that Two Clowns is nothing better than a glorified data entry clerk?
Springsteen: (gives me a meaningful look, but stays silent)
Me: Wow.
Springsteen: Why?
Me: I was just curious. Cuz she said some things to me last week about another biller, things that were really personal and inappropriate, so I just wanted to know--if it happens again--if I could just tell her to fuck off.
Springsteen: I've got your back.

I've fallen way behind in my blogging for which I apologize to all y'all, because I've got some adventures to relate. We've just been so busy; I haven't even had time to work on my novel in a week. I swear, the minute I have a chance I will get to Long Island Lake Retreat: The Revenge of Jack Fish and Quad War: Now With Less Douchebaggery.