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Point One : So, Ass.boss walked up to me today and told me that she was changing me from the 9-5 schedule I've had for nearly a year and a half to a 10-6 schedule for Book Rush. Okay, Book Rush is a week or so, I can deal.
Then she goes on about how her boss said that Customer Service has always been a 10-6 shift and how she thinks she'll be leaving me there. I gave her the familiar "Have you been dropped on your head recently or are you just high again?" look and said "Umm... no."
"Oh, yeah."
I pointed out that the woman who had this job before me worked 9-5. That I've worked 9-5 almost the entire two years I've been the Customer Service Wench (Ass.boss doesn't like us to use terms like "supervisor" because she thinks it makes us feel too entitled. Therefore, I have decided I will be the Customer Service Wench.) and that I was only 10-6 because I used to be a Cashier Supervisor and we already had a 9-5 one of those.
"Oh, but we moved you to 9-5 because of your husband and since he's not here anymore you don't have to be here at 9." Okay. Let me dissect what's wrong with that sentence. A) "We" did nothing, because she wasn't even working for us at the time. B) For the last time, I am a separate entity from my husband and the next asshat that doesn't understand that is going to get my foot lodged up their ass. And C) Why would my husband's schedule be any more important than mine? I don't even live in the same town as the store, I f'in commute every day! I am not going to end up getting home at seven every evening. No. Way. In. Hell.
Have started work on resume. Will find new job - maybe part-time since the Army finally got off its ass and started paying me.
Which brings me to Point Two: Last Tuesday I visited the Recruiting office (Remember Sgt. Henchman?) and asked Sgt. ButtNugget to attempt to get a copy of DH's ID so that I can fax it to DH's loan people to get a forbearance.
"Sure, I'll do that right now, Miss DH" - (BTW Asshat, I am MS. or MRS. D-H to YOU. I am a married woman. I paid large sums of money to become a married woman, went through huge amounts of grief because of it, and I'll be damned if you will address me as Miss one more time, you mutant cabbage. And my name is hyphenated. TWO NAMES. SEPARATED BY A HYPHEN. I am not my husband's property. He is not mine. I am my own person, you syphilitic gopher, and you will learn my name! You are not my friend, my pal or my confidant. I do not like you. We are not buddies. I do not call you Mr. ButtNuggetypoo *giggle* for a reason.)
Where was I? OH, yeah, so he makes some calls and tells me he'll get that for me.
Today (for those of you too tired to do the math, it's been six days) I call and ask if he's had any luck.
"Yeah. I got that Thursday."
If it had been possible to reach through a phone line and strangle someone, I would have tried.
"But it's not clear. I was going to call and ask for another fax. But it's nearly impossible to fax a copy of a Military ID."
Now, see, this is where I thought "So mail me a copy" and where he thought "Let's try to fax it again, a few more times, just to be sure." Also, he waited four days for me to call him to tell me that the fax was crap and to decide that maybe he should do something about it.
And Point Three : Here's where I discuss lingerie, so you might not want to pay attention, Alex or Jason.
For the first time in nearly sixteen years I put on a non-sports bra that actually fit.
I like sports bras. They are comfortable. They fit okay. They create the distinct uniboob look I've grown quite accustomed to. Every other bra does some weird pointy, freaky thing that involves underwires and pulling and separating and I don't like it.
Plus, when I finally broke down and went into a lingerie store to get properly fitted it turned into this horrible traumatic experience. And I had to special order my size. And it cost more than ... well, let's just say it cost alot.
Imaging my surprise when I suddenly had a whim to buy a real bra on the last "Girl's Day Shopping Extravaganza". It had padding and everything. I've always been a firm believer that after a certain cup size, a woman does not need a padded bra. But it seems to make a difference.
I got dressed today and realized that I am, in fact, a Girl! I have curves that I haven't really seen in over a decade. I believe that if DH could see me now, he would approve.
And to you, woman who hooked up with TWO of my ex-boyfriends and who liked to flaunt your self-described "perky C cups"... Bah! I am Woman, hear me Roar. Or somejunk.
Then she goes on about how her boss said that Customer Service has always been a 10-6 shift and how she thinks she'll be leaving me there. I gave her the familiar "Have you been dropped on your head recently or are you just high again?" look and said "Umm... no."
"Oh, yeah."
I pointed out that the woman who had this job before me worked 9-5. That I've worked 9-5 almost the entire two years I've been the Customer Service Wench (Ass.boss doesn't like us to use terms like "supervisor" because she thinks it makes us feel too entitled. Therefore, I have decided I will be the Customer Service Wench.) and that I was only 10-6 because I used to be a Cashier Supervisor and we already had a 9-5 one of those.
"Oh, but we moved you to 9-5 because of your husband and since he's not here anymore you don't have to be here at 9." Okay. Let me dissect what's wrong with that sentence. A) "We" did nothing, because she wasn't even working for us at the time. B) For the last time, I am a separate entity from my husband and the next asshat that doesn't understand that is going to get my foot lodged up their ass. And C) Why would my husband's schedule be any more important than mine? I don't even live in the same town as the store, I f'in commute every day! I am not going to end up getting home at seven every evening. No. Way. In. Hell.
Have started work on resume. Will find new job - maybe part-time since the Army finally got off its ass and started paying me.
Which brings me to Point Two: Last Tuesday I visited the Recruiting office (Remember Sgt. Henchman?) and asked Sgt. ButtNugget to attempt to get a copy of DH's ID so that I can fax it to DH's loan people to get a forbearance.
"Sure, I'll do that right now, Miss DH" - (BTW Asshat, I am MS. or MRS. D-H to YOU. I am a married woman. I paid large sums of money to become a married woman, went through huge amounts of grief because of it, and I'll be damned if you will address me as Miss one more time, you mutant cabbage. And my name is hyphenated. TWO NAMES. SEPARATED BY A HYPHEN. I am not my husband's property. He is not mine. I am my own person, you syphilitic gopher, and you will learn my name! You are not my friend, my pal or my confidant. I do not like you. We are not buddies. I do not call you Mr. ButtNuggetypoo *giggle* for a reason.)
Where was I? OH, yeah, so he makes some calls and tells me he'll get that for me.
Today (for those of you too tired to do the math, it's been six days) I call and ask if he's had any luck.
"Yeah. I got that Thursday."
If it had been possible to reach through a phone line and strangle someone, I would have tried.
"But it's not clear. I was going to call and ask for another fax. But it's nearly impossible to fax a copy of a Military ID."
Now, see, this is where I thought "So mail me a copy" and where he thought "Let's try to fax it again, a few more times, just to be sure." Also, he waited four days for me to call him to tell me that the fax was crap and to decide that maybe he should do something about it.
And Point Three : Here's where I discuss lingerie, so you might not want to pay attention, Alex or Jason.
For the first time in nearly sixteen years I put on a non-sports bra that actually fit.
I like sports bras. They are comfortable. They fit okay. They create the distinct uniboob look I've grown quite accustomed to. Every other bra does some weird pointy, freaky thing that involves underwires and pulling and separating and I don't like it.
Plus, when I finally broke down and went into a lingerie store to get properly fitted it turned into this horrible traumatic experience. And I had to special order my size. And it cost more than ... well, let's just say it cost alot.
Imaging my surprise when I suddenly had a whim to buy a real bra on the last "Girl's Day Shopping Extravaganza". It had padding and everything. I've always been a firm believer that after a certain cup size, a woman does not need a padded bra. But it seems to make a difference.
I got dressed today and realized that I am, in fact, a Girl! I have curves that I haven't really seen in over a decade. I believe that if DH could see me now, he would approve.
And to you, woman who hooked up with TWO of my ex-boyfriends and who liked to flaunt your self-described "perky C cups"... Bah! I am Woman, hear me Roar. Or somejunk.
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