Office Update

1. The Volunteer resigned, tendering her resignation the very same day that HOBL resolved to fire her great big fat ass. Her last day was a couple of weeks ago. So long, bitch.

2. I have changed desks so that I no longer share a pod with Yvette. This comes after months of having to overhear her arguing with her controlling and abusive fiance (or her son or her drunken sister or whoever else). Yvette's dramatics, even apart from her health issues, are truly dreary. She has gone home early because of the stress incurred from one of these telephone fights, or she has yelled into the receiver (so the whole office can hear), "Quit fuckin' calling me that!"

Even her "business calls" end up being personal calls that go on for twenty minutes. And when she's not on the phone, she's surfing the net (not allowed in our office), looking for wedding jewellery, or make up to cover her tattoos (for the wedding--here's a thought; wear some clothes!) or trolling the Humane Society website for a dog and/or cat. And she can't just do this and piss away her time. No, she has to involve me.

"Look! Isn't Jupiter cute?!"

"Do you think I should buy this wedding dress on-line?"

"Do you like this elephant?"

She's also one of those employees that only need the slightest excuse to not come in. She might have a hangnail, or she can't drive her Mustang on the ice (you live in Canada--there is ice on the road most of the year: why do you have a car you can't drive?), or she has to go to the courthouse and get divorced before she can marry a man who doesn't like her to leave the house without him, because he doesn't like not knowing where she is.

Or like a couple of weeks ago, when she had the flu and took three days off, then left early on Friday to pick up her trailer for the May long weekend. (To be fair, though, management should have said, "Hell, no!").

So, I moved two pods over and am now with Hitler and Svetlana. Now, the offical excuse for my move was that there is going to be a lot more business with my branch of the work involving sites I've never worked with before, so sitting next to Hitler, the Billing Guru, just makes sense. In reality, however, I was tired of overhearing her fuck the dog and distracting me while I was busting my hump trying to earn a paycheque.

And it seems that Yvette just might have figured it out. Oh, not that she would ask me directly. No, that would indicate that she was an adult. No yesterday morning, she sent her boyfriend (who doesn't even work for our company) over to my new station to drill me on the reason for my move (like it's any of his fucking business).

His goofy head appeared above my cubicle wall and he said, "Did you move?"

I was instantly seized by the compulsion to do one of a couple things. One, I wanted to look around frantically and say, "You mean, this ISN'T my desk?!"  Two, I wanted to be snide and say, "Is that not manifestly clear?" and three, I wanted to resort to hostility, "What's it to you, pretzel dick?"

Instead, I said patiently, "Yes. I moved."

"Why?"

"Because my workload is increasing and it's going to be a little more complicated, so it's easier to be closer to Hitler than yelling across the office or sending her a constant barrage of emails," I explained, though again, it's none of his goddamn business.

"Oh," he said, "I just wondered if Yvette was making you nuts."

Oh! I thought to myself, Well, if you want to bring it into the open....

So, being a firm believer in the old adage, "If you ask, you must want to know" (my Tarot business is founded on that premise), I said, "Yes, the whole fighting on the phone all the time thing was making me crazy."

And he said something neutral and buggered off. Whatever. Only, he must have been a good boy and reported back to Yvette sometime that day, because now she won't make eye contact with me, won't talk to me and takes her breaks with the other group (which includes Teeth, who she supposedly despises). I have to also assume that my invitation to the wedding has been revoked (you can't imagine the relief).

This leaves me completely speechless. To begin with, why does it matter why I changed desks? It happens in our office all the time. Secondly, why do you imagine it is a personal matter (as it is only partly because of you)? But most importantly, how emotionally and socially arrested are you that you think it's appropriate to send your dumbass boyfriend to ask me about it, rather than sending me an email or asking me yourself??? Am I that fucking scary? Or are you that fucking immature?

I believe this anecdote answers that question.

And how goddamn backwards is that office when *I* am the one with a work ethic??? When *I*--Miss "I Could Make A Coffee Table Book Of the Places I've Publically Pooped"--am the professional, mature one??? Are all offices like this, junior high writ large??? Or did I just get lucky???

And Now For Something Completely Different.

A review of Tim Burton's Dark Shadows, starring Johnny Depp, Michelle Pfieffer and Helena Bonham-Carter.

First off, I want to say that I am tired of seeing companies like Cenovus and Syncrude using the cinemas to spread their propaganda about how they're really the good guys, planting trees and doing all kinds of environmentally-friendly shit, when anyone who takes the merest effort to scratch the surface can learn about their flagrant disdain for government regulations and how cancer rates have soared in areas where they are working. Fuck you, assholes.

And onto the movie.

I want to state at the outset that I am a Tim Burton fan, and a Johnny Depp fan, and I've always really enjoyed Michelle Pfieffer and Helena Bonham-Carter is a goddess.

All that said, I was disappointed in this film.

None of the characters evolve: they remain precisely the same at the end of the movie as they began it. And while the individual performances are well done, with the expection of (Bella Heathcotte, the governess, who was adequate), and most of them are likeable to one degree or another, we search in vain for any development.

The film is shot through with all of Tim Burton's classic trademarks, such as the glowering skies, the rich dark atmouspheres of gothic history and gorgeous costuming (both 1700s and 1970s), what's missing from this project is good writing. The screenplay is frankly a little sloppy. (WARNING: major spoiler alert ahead!) The revelation about the werewolf was very clumsily delivered, the man-out-of-time humour got a little tired after awhile and Burton had characters, such as the old housekeeper, who showed up at key points and never got used. The house is burning down, and everyone gets out, except the old woman, who is conveniently forgotten.

Anyway, it's entertaining enough, but it isn't Burton or Depp's best work (although it's great to see Michelle Pfeiffer back on the screen). If you're an ardent fan, I suspect you will be disappointed, too, but it's entertaining enough once it arrives at the cheap theatres or on video.

And when I have more time, I'll describe the douchebaggery at the bar we went to AFTER the movie. 

Where's the Love? And the Professionalism?

Teeth is separating from her live-in partner and father of her child. The guy is a complete fucktard, but it's not like he tried to hide his fucktardedness: on their second date, he was picked up for drunk driving and driving without a license because he had lost it when he was convicted of D.U.I. a couple of months earlier. So it's not like there weren't plenty of warning signs, but Teeth went ahead and moved in with him anyway. And had a child with him, even though he had three other children and couldn't manage the support payments for any of them, so he was always in arrears with Maintenance Enforcement, which forced him to drive without a license and hunt without a license and, well, you get the idea. It was a BAD IDEA from the start. I'm sure Teeth thought that she could make him into a better, more responsible person, but we've all heard that story and how it ends. Both parties typically get what they deserve.

Anyway, I guess she eventually got tired of his crap ("Where are you? Who are you with? Is it a man? What are you doing? What time will you be home? I love you. Call me."--an actual phone message) and since he has declined to attend counselling, Teeth is supposedly leaving. That's a little tricky, because the house, the vehicles and the business are all in her name, because he isn't stupid, he's just a controlling, manipulative, lazy deadbeat. So now she's liable and it's not just as easy as "Get the fuck out, asswipe."

It's also tricky because the Fucktard still wants to have sex and--this is the killer--she is still sleeping in the same bed with him (can we say "mixed messages"?). But she has told him in no uncertain terms that it is over and there is just no way that he is ever going to get the stank on his hang-down again, not where she's concerned.

And if you're wondering how I know all this, it's because I--and by extension, the rest of the office--overheard her this afternoon telling all this to one of the drivers who stopped by to discuss a pay discrepancy, and got more than he bargained for, I'm sure. I don't know if this is her way of advertising ("No-one in my house is having sex, but you could change all that for me") or if she just doesn't have anyone else to vent to, but no-one in the office is impressed at all.

I know I shouldn't be surprised by this oversharing of intimate information, but I am utterly appalled. I can't imagine that Head Office Boss Lady would consider this a successful attempt to "step it up" professionally, either. One of my co-workers shared in an email with me yesterday that she has trouble sleeping on Sunday nights, because she knows she has to go back to that place on Monday morning, and I know precisely how she feels. 

Wedding Update

Remember a little while back, I posted about Princess Anne's wedding plans? You can read about it here, if you need your memory jogged, or if you are a little late to the ball. Well, intrepid reader, hold onto your shitkickers, cuz here is the latest.

The Doughy Fiance has decided that his contribution to the wedding plans comes in the form of "Mossy Oak Camo". As in "camoflage." As in, what rednecks wear when they go into the woods to kill somethin' (which is occasionally each other). Yes, Doughboy has declared that the wedding cake must prominently feature this particular pattern. Seriously? Does camo count as a "wedding colour"?

"Congratulations, Lurleen! Have you picked out your colours yet?"

"Yeah, I really wanted 'Desert Storm', but Billy Ray insisted on 'Mossy Oak'."

Can you friggin' imagine? And she is okay with this! The very nanosecond that he even breathed such a suggestion, that would be the moment that he was excluded from any further consultations.

It gets better, though. He has also decided that the cake topper isn't going to a be a bride and groom or a pair of hearts or anything half so conventional. No, he wants a buck and a doe.

*insert eye-rollng here*

Sorry if I seem a little smug or  judgy or sneery (or all three), but seriously: a buck and a doe? Such subtlety! Will the buck be mounting the doe, or do we trust our rural neighbours and guests to grasp the subtlety of this message?

I don't know what Doughboy does for intellectual stimulation, but I strongly suspect it has to do with trucks of the monster variety, or baseball bats and mailboxes.

Now I know how the Wild Rose Party got as far as they did.

Anyway, in other news...

I was fitted for a hearing aid last Wednesday. I go to pick it up for a one-month trial on the 9th. Because my hearing is so badly damaged, I didn't get one of the high-end ones (which include Bluetooth technology, if you can believe it). Because of the tinnitus, though, the hearing aid I chose offers an option that will provide me with "Zen-like music" to distract me from the ringing in my ear. I don't know how often I'll use that particular feature, but I can certainly see how it might be helpful in certain situations.

Like, for example, the next time Teeth appears at my cubicle to complain about her piles or what a dipshit her (soon-to-be ex) husband is: I can adopt a beatific, serene smile and Zen-out. It would look like this:

When the reality is much more like this:

I'm curious to see how much difference a hearing aid will make. I'm not necessarily convinced that I'm going to want to hear everything around me any clearer. I sat next to an older man on the train this weekend who was chewing gum with his mouth open. It sounded, as it says on Facebook, like an army of vaginas marching through mud.

Nu Shooz

More tales of frustration and incredulidity from my place of employment:

Yvette is a breast cancer survivor. That doesn't keep her from smoking, but she has been at least three years without a reoccurance. Except that her docotr recently found a handful of tny masses in her lung. They are too small to biopsy, so they are monitoring the masses until June to see if they have grown.

So, you'd think that Yvette would see herself as someone with a vested interest in the health care system in this province. The subject is a perennial one: the system is constantly under attack from a lack of funding and a governement who is convinced that privatizing the system (a la the US) is the way to go.

And last night, we had a provincial election. Voting is important (I daresay, imperative) whenever one has the opportunity. It is especially so when issues as basic as education and environment and health care are being discussed in ways that could significantly impact one's services.

So imagine my shock and dismay when I said to Yvette this morning, "Did you vote last night?" and her response was, "No, I never vote. I never know what the issues are and I never know who to vote for." Then she showed me her foot. "I got new shoes, though."

New shoes. This stupid bitch's priority was not shorter waiting times, or better drug coverage or improved services: no, she wanted new shoes.

I had to leave the fucking room, or I was going to say some unpleasant things.What is the excuse for such a level of passivity??? I DO NOT UNDERSTAND!!!

But I don't want to hear one single word out of her about how the health care system is letting her down, if and when it turns out to be cancer. Cuz then I will say it all.

I have more tales of stupidity, but I"m struggling with a chest cold, so they will hve to wait until I feel like sitting up for longer.

Lazy Fucking Bitch

It's been a while since I've written, I know. That's what happens when Real Life intervenes. Ironically, my "Real Life" adventures have been of the unreal variety, in the sense that I have started going to the SCA for fencing practice on Sundays and Wednesdays and archery on Tuesdays. I have bitched long and loud about the SCA before, so this may surprise some of you; and to be sure, the marginal personalities still thrive in abundance. However, not everyone is like that, it's an opportunity to get some much -needed, cheap exercise, and as a friend of a friend once said: "The SCA is like AOL: you know it sucks, but all your friends are there."

I have no doubt whatsoever that the SCA will furnish me with material aplenty (in fact, it already has), but this post is dedicated to the on-going bullshit at my place of employment. It may startle many of you that my issue is not with Teeth this time. Even more startling is the revelation that, since we had a little chat, Teeth has been relatively pleasant to work with. A couple of months ago, she called me into an empty office and said that Head Office Boss Lady had shared some of my concerns with her, and suggested that we talk about the way her behaviour has affected. I gave her kudos, frankly, for having the balls to chat with me in the first place.

And what became astonishingly apparent as the conversation progressed, is that Teeth has never received the kind of feedback I was giving her. Because her behaviour had gone unchecked, and because our industry is not typically prone to "corporate culture", she had no clue really that other people view her as a bully and a ditch pig. So, we came to the agreement that I would lower my standards somewhat if she raised hers. And so far, it's working quite well.

What ISN'T working is the woman I formerly referred to as The Biller I Like. One of the things I like best about where I am is that our supervisors don't pay any particular attention to when we show up five or ten minutes late, and they aren't at all strict about days off for medical appointments, sick days, etc. It is understood that we are on the honour system, and it is hoped that the system is not abused.

But of course, it only takes one fucking twat-waffle to fuck it for everyone else. Enter The Volunteer. That's what I call her now, because she obviously views her job as some kind of volunteer position with the added bonus of a paycheque. She acts as if she is doing us all a huge favour by showing up. This woman routinely wanders in half an hour late, leaves early or doesn't come in at all. Her absenteeism is so prevalent that she hasn't done a full week's work in eight consecutive weeks.

Her excuses range from, "I have a migraine" (even though she is able to text messages to her co-workers throughout the work day and was seen driving around her small town just after work hours had ended), "My daughter's schoolbus went into the ditch" (we later found out that her daughter drives to school), to "My grand-daughter is sick" (whoopee). Oh, and let's not forget the mother-daughter pap she had scheduled that took all day (prompting many of us to speculate if perhaps the gyno hadn't fallen in). (And who the fuck schedules mother-daughter pap tests anyway? Isn't that an indication of being overbonded to your child? Gross.)

And because she thinks we're friends, she tells me quite frankly about all the times that she has lied in order to score extra days off. For example, the husband was coming home on a Monday after working out of town. She told Head Office Boss Lady that there was a banquet she had to attend for her daughter's participation in the Winter Games: she admitted to me before the weekend started that there was no banquet. She just wanted to do the nasty.

Not only does she abuse a really wonderful system, thus endangering it for the rest of us, but The Volunteer has also displayed flagrant insubordination. A few weeks ago, Teeth was away in another city for a training seminar (possibly in how to flirt on the phone with the East Coast drivers so as to score a replacement for her current partner, who is a dick). In Teeth's absence, the emminently capable Hitler is in charge.

On the Thursday afternoon, The Volunteer left at 2:30  in the afternoon for some kind of appointment. Then on Friday at lunchtime, she announced to me that she was going to Jasper (a mountain resort town about four hours away, for those of you who are not local) to meet up with her husband, who has been working there for the last couple of months. She said she was leaving at 3:00, because she wanted to be on the road while it was still light. But she hadn't told Hitler yet.

So about 2:00, The Volunteer sent an email to Hitler, asking if she could go at 3:00 for the reasons stated above (and let's not forget: The Volunteer had left early the day before). Hitler said no, indicating quite reasonably that there was still work in The Volunteer's work queue that needed to be done, and the other employee trained in that work had booked the afternoon off for a physio appointment. The answer was clearly "no".

At six minutes after 3:00, The Volunteer gathered up her things and walked out of the office.

I was floored. Obviously she feels that she is entitled to this time off (she's not, especially given that she's never there anyway), and that she is not constrained by the same rules as the rest of us. To ignore a direct order from her supervisor is, as far as I'm concerned, grounds for immediate dismissal. Hitler was taken aback, but didn't feel that it was worth her while to confront The Volunteer about it, and if she told Teeth about it on Teeth's return, nothing was said to The Volunteer.

It is extremely damaging to morale to sit at one's desk busting one's hump to meet a deadline or resolve an issue or get a report out and know that someone else is getting paid exactly the same (or more!) despite not being there, because they are staying home to fuck. Part of the problem is that we don't have a supervisor on site with any real authority, which is actually a good thing, if we're talking about Teeth, who I doubt has the emotional maturity to not abuse any power she's given. It has been EIGHT WEEKS--two entire months--since The Volunteer has put in a full 37.5 hours. In the meantime, Hitler and several others (myself included) have occasionally stayed late to get stuff done.

So we (Princess Anne and I) complained to one of the managers who asked us to compile all the data we could, which he would then share with Head Office Boss Lady. We took him our eight weeks worth of evidence, but he told us to keep going. Well, fuck, how much longer is this going to take? How much more do you need?

I have applied for another position in the company that will take me out of Billing and into a whole other department, one that pays better and has more challenges to it. But it's been over a month since I applied and there has been no indication of an interview, so my hopes are rather dashed.

It Puts the Lotion...In Its Mouth?

Proof positive that Princess Anne is not the sharpest tool in the shed arrived in my inbox this afternoon.

She wrote in an email: "I brought some hand lotion in from home because my legs are peeling like a snake. And this stuff smells SO GOOD. It's Milk and Honey, so no wonder it's making me hungry."

I wrote back, "I'll come sniff it in a few minutes."

Before I could leave my desk, however, another message arrived: "It doesn't taste as good as it smells."

I'll just leave that with you.

Except I have to tell you about Princess Anne's wedding plans. Her Doughy Boyfriend finally proposed to her over Christmas, and now she's going bananas plannng the tackiest country and western affair of the year. Except that she doesnt KNOW how tacky it is.

For example, to commemorate the big day, she wants to order this print of two horses standing next to a fence. And on the fence, one has the option of getting one's initials "carved". She showed it to me on her phone and asked, "Isn't that cute?"

Well, no, actually, it makes me throw up in my mouth a little, but it's your big day, Lurleen, go for it.

She already has the pink cowboy boots that she'll be wearing under her dress picked out, and has told the Doughy Boyfriend/Fiance that the best man and groomsmen will be expected to wear black cowboy hats, royal blue western shirts and black jeans.

Of course, she will be riding up to her ceremony on horseback (cuz nothing says romance is in the air quite like horse shit). This announcement prompted me to ask, "Do you have a sidesaddle?"

To which she replied, "No, I'm too redneck to own a sidesaddle. I'll just throw my knee over the horn of my western saddle."

Well, if that doesn't put all the ass back in class, I don't know what does. And of course, once the ceremony is concluded, then she and the Doughy Groom will ride away together.

So unable to bear it any longer, I started to take the piss, to which she remained blissfully ignorant. I asked her, "Well, have you picked out the song that you'll be riding up to? Maybe 'Ghost Riders In the Sky'? Or 'She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy'? Or how about 'Boot Scootin' Boogie'? Thats a good one!"

"No, I was thinking more like blahblahblah" and she named some country and western song that I have never heard of by some western performer equally unknown to me. Later on in the day, she sent me the lyrics, and although they didn't feature spectral cattle or farm equipment or tequila, I'm pretty sure the performer whines his way very earnestly through the whole song amid slide guitars and maybe even a fiddle.

"Jesus Christ," I said to the Little Hunneydoo when I got home from work that day, "I gotta get another job before Wanda Sue invites me to that fucking wedding."

I dont know what the reception will be like, but I doubt there will be much in the way of vegetarian options.

Unless you count the hand lotion.