Saturday, March 12, 2011
No word on that job, so I'm going to assume that it's not good news.
No word on Project S-hole's Unemployment, either. Disappointing. I had hoped that by now I'd have gotten a call from HR asking "my side of the story". I may have to email VP to ask where that's gone if I don't hear from someone soon. Or maybe I'll let it fester while I'm on vacation this week (yay!), and then look into it again when I get back, all shocked and surprised that there's no update, and one week closer to the end of my stupid writeup freeze.
This week was tough to get through. My week of vacation hung over my head all week threatening to consume my very thought and thoroughly fuck with me. But you can always count on our customers to entertain you. Some highlights:
First: a voicemail:
Yeah. . . . . I need someone to call me back. . . . . Um. Yeah. Could... ah... OK, let me get my number. {shuffling and breathing for about 70 seconds}. OK. Call me at 3. . . 66-. . . . . 5. . . um.. {clears throat} sorry. . . I'm not. . . . . a professional . . like you. . . . guys... ;4..12.. .. .. . . . 6. Ok. . .. .. .. .. I REALLY need you to call me.
Message sent at 10:25 pm Sunday.
I called the number and it was "not a working number". I have to admit that the message was hilarious at first, but we have our suspicions about who left it, and if it's him, it's just sad. He's a regular customer who appears to be trying really hard to drink himself to death. Every time I take his call he asks me what I look like and then asks if I know him. He's drunker and drunker every time I talk to him. A few months ago he at least TRIED to act sober. Then for a brief period, he'd claim he wasn't drunk in mid-sentence. I fully expect to read about his death in the paper in the next couple of months.
Then there's a girl I'll call Squeezey. Squeezey was opening a bank account--she's twenty years old and never had one, doesn't have a job, and isn't in college (the check she had was a one-time thing). Squeezey had an enormous, yellow zit resting right on the tip of her upper lip, just inside that little divot between the "V". So enormous, in fact, it almost filled that whole area. I could barely look her in the eye because I kept looking at it and felt bad. The account-opening process takes about 20 minutes. About 5 minutes into it, she popped it. And for the remaining 15 minutes, she proceeded to squeeze it, wipe it on her sleeve, touch it some more, wipe some more, touch... touch... squeeze... wipe... touch... wipe... I swear to GOD I wanted to vomit. I focused completely on my computer screen and REFUSED to look in her direction. Gag. Eventually she asked her brother to go to the bathroom and get a tissue (she never asked if we had any!). Being a typical brother, he refused. They argued. He ridiculed her for her freshly-squeezed zit. She taunted back that he had two huge ones that needed popping, and it just about came to blows with her threatening to squeeze his zits when I was able to interrupt for some paperwork. I refused to touch the pen she used.
GAG. GAG. GAG.
No word on Project S-hole's Unemployment, either. Disappointing. I had hoped that by now I'd have gotten a call from HR asking "my side of the story". I may have to email VP to ask where that's gone if I don't hear from someone soon. Or maybe I'll let it fester while I'm on vacation this week (yay!), and then look into it again when I get back, all shocked and surprised that there's no update, and one week closer to the end of my stupid writeup freeze.
This week was tough to get through. My week of vacation hung over my head all week threatening to consume my very thought and thoroughly fuck with me. But you can always count on our customers to entertain you. Some highlights:
First: a voicemail:
Yeah. . . . . I need someone to call me back. . . . . Um. Yeah. Could... ah... OK, let me get my number. {shuffling and breathing for about 70 seconds}. OK. Call me at 3. . . 66-. . . . . 5. . . um.. {clears throat} sorry. . . I'm not. . . . . a professional . . like you. . . . guys... ;4..12.. .. .. . . . 6. Ok. . .. .. .. .. I REALLY need you to call me.
Message sent at 10:25 pm Sunday.
I called the number and it was "not a working number". I have to admit that the message was hilarious at first, but we have our suspicions about who left it, and if it's him, it's just sad. He's a regular customer who appears to be trying really hard to drink himself to death. Every time I take his call he asks me what I look like and then asks if I know him. He's drunker and drunker every time I talk to him. A few months ago he at least TRIED to act sober. Then for a brief period, he'd claim he wasn't drunk in mid-sentence. I fully expect to read about his death in the paper in the next couple of months.
Then there's a girl I'll call Squeezey. Squeezey was opening a bank account--she's twenty years old and never had one, doesn't have a job, and isn't in college (the check she had was a one-time thing). Squeezey had an enormous, yellow zit resting right on the tip of her upper lip, just inside that little divot between the "V". So enormous, in fact, it almost filled that whole area. I could barely look her in the eye because I kept looking at it and felt bad. The account-opening process takes about 20 minutes. About 5 minutes into it, she popped it. And for the remaining 15 minutes, she proceeded to squeeze it, wipe it on her sleeve, touch it some more, wipe some more, touch... touch... squeeze... wipe... touch... wipe... I swear to GOD I wanted to vomit. I focused completely on my computer screen and REFUSED to look in her direction. Gag. Eventually she asked her brother to go to the bathroom and get a tissue (she never asked if we had any!). Being a typical brother, he refused. They argued. He ridiculed her for her freshly-squeezed zit. She taunted back that he had two huge ones that needed popping, and it just about came to blows with her threatening to squeeze his zits when I was able to interrupt for some paperwork. I refused to touch the pen she used.
GAG. GAG. GAG.
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