Pass the Percocet, Please

I try really hard not to blog about work.  Really, I do, because I like my job and would prefer to keep it, and I usually don't blog about people who don't know about it and therefore don't have the option of yelling at me.  But when you work in a place where your job is focused on hooking (rug), and the other part of the plant is full of red-blooded American men who manufacture trucking alignment equipment and still have pinup calendars and say things like "Fuckin' RIGHT, I'm going to the drag races this weekend!" and can't help but look at your chest if you wear a v-neck shirt, there is just SO. MUCH. MATERIAL.  I'm going to indulge a little bit here.

First, I have a pair of Keen shoes that I love, and occasionally wear to work:

I love these shoes.  They are comfortable and sort of fun.  But I noticed that every time I wear these shoes, one guy out in the shop looks at them.  A lot.  I'm thinking, "Oh, he thinks these are ugly and weird and why do I wear such stupid shoes."   I wore them this week, and I caught him looking at the shoes again.  I busted him. 

ME:  "Are you hating on my shoes?"
HIM:  (caught, slightly blushing) "What?  Um, no."
ME:  "Admit it, you always look at these shoes.  What's up, you think they're ugly?"
HIM:  (smiles) "No, I've been thinking about it and I think they look Japanese or something, and they look like you should be wearing them with a kimono or something, and every time I see them I just think 'she's a Tiger Lady'" and then he made this "ROWR!" sound while batting a paw in the air.
**awkward silence**
ME:  "Oh.  Yes.  Tiger Lady. Terrific."
And so now I can no longer wear the Tiger Lady/Geisha shoes to work because I will not go ROWR and I don't want anyone imagining me going ROWR at work or powdering my face white with red tiny lips or serving them sushi while naked in the lotus position.

Part of my job is talking to the hookers on the phone.  They are mostly pretty nice people, and very interesting.  You wouldn't BELIEVE the things people tell a stranger on the phone.  Last week a woman called and wanted to order some of our product.  Her voice sounded like she was maybe an Asian war bride, because she had that Americanized Asian accent, but her name was very Nordic sounding.  She was hilarious.  She placed her order, and then started talking to her friend in the room, so I get the one-sided conversation:

 "You want tote table?  Yes, you do.  You DO.  You HAVE money.  You love it!  You NEED it.  It only $149, that cheap!  You can AFFORD it.  Yes.  You want?  I put it on my order, then you save shipping.  Now you CAN'T say no.  Okay?  Yes?  Okay, Julie you still there?  My friend want tote table, shipping the same, yes?"

Then I had to get her credit card number, and she said, "Oh, damn, I don't have right credit card.  I call you back." and hung up on me.  So I set the order aside, and figured she'd call back.  She does, one week later, and says, "Julie, you send my order yet?"  Well, no, I haven't.  She gives me her credit card number, and says, "You ship today, alright?"  I say yes, we will ship her order today.

When I run her credit card, it declines because it has an invalid number, which means we probably just got a number mixed up.  I call her today and say I need to confirm her credit card number. 

"What, you think I'm a thief?  Like a criminal, I take your stuff?"  No, ma'am, I'm sure the card number is just off by a number.  She reads her number, and sure enough, a 5 should have been a 3.  I tell her it is fixed, and she says, "Well, Julie, do you know what Percocet is?  I take LOTS of Percocet, sometimes too much, I get confused.  When anything go wrong, I know it's the Percocet."

And that is how I came up for my new excuse for everything.  If anything go wrong, I will now know it's the Percocet.  Or my Tiger Lady screw me in a kimono rowr shoes.

Sometimes work can be fun and informative.  Thank you, Tiger Lady.

Julie the Wife, Reporting Live

This is Julie the Wife, reporting live from The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About.

This is my last day of full-time employment here, and so I have decided to report to you from the bunker.

It is dim on my floor, which is open to all cubbies and corners of the other employees, because they only have every other light bulb screwed in to save on supplies.  My light flickers over my desk, and the room is quiet except for the sound of muted human suffering.

Laughter breaks out across the room, and everyone turns in surprise to see who has found joy in the building.

Today, I have broken all of the laws, and I am wearing a brown turtleneck with...gasp...jeans, and my German dancin' clogs.  I did not shower.  I did not wash my hair.  I brought chocolate chip bars for the people who volunteered for my last event, because volunteers are few and far between and they must be taken care of.  I brought guacamole because the people in the next department are having a Snack Day, and the guac is my ticket to snacking all day long.

I am openly speaking to other employees in a way that makes it obvious I'm not talking about work-related issues.  I am blogging on my personal blog, and drinking coffee.  It's not just any coffee - it is a Starbucks Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte, nectar of the Gods.  Today is a special day and I deserve a special coffee.  It takes so little to bring me joy. 

The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About does not provide coffee for employees, and so my boss brought in her own coffee pot from home.  We have to hide our coffee pot because other people will come filch your coffee.  In other departments, the coffee pots have big threatening signs on them that say things like, "IF YOU DON'T BRING IT, YOU DON'T DRINK IT" and "THIS IS NOT A PUBLIC COFFEE POT - PAY FOR USE" and "IF YOU DRINK MY COFFEE I WILL KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS".   On the black market here, a cup of coffee costs $42.  This is how I've supplemented my meager salary, by selling cups of coffee in the back hallways.  The crack rocks and Rolexes I sell go for under $40, but the coffee can bring in $60-70 on a good day.

Can I just take a moment and say that the people I work with here are terrific.  I feel like I'm going to have post-traumatic stress disorder and survivor's guilt.  I left the burning car with people in it, and as I ran from the wreckage they yelled, "Don't forget about me if your company is hiring!  Take my resume with you!"  I am like Daniel Day-Lewis in Last of the Mohicans - "Keep yourself alive!  I promise, I will return for you!"

It is 9:45 a.m. I have seven hours left.  It is Snack Day, Coffee Day, and Clogs Day.  I'm ready to clock out, when my world will suddenly be in Technicolor, and the Munchkins will accompany me along the yellow brick road and Glinda the Good Witch will tell me to tap my Dansko clogs together and say, "There's No Place Like Home", and CH will wake me up and say, "It was just a bad dream - can we have sex?"

To those of you who are stuck in a job you may or may not hate to the depths of your soul, get that resume together - somewhere over the rainbow there is a job you will like, I promise. 

UPDATE:  To all of my co-workers who were just told this morning I have a blog and are now reading it, on their computer screens in front of potential management view, a couple of things:

A)  You are wonderful people, I didn't lie.
B)  CLOSE OUT OF THIS BLOG NOW!  It is for home reading.  My Attorney will tell you I don't want to get in any trouble.
C)  Please know that my readers understand that I am an entertainer, not a historian.

It's Not a Job, It's an Adventure

So I have some news in the Day of this Wife - I have ALREADY quit The Job I Can't Blog About. Yes, that's right, I'm a quitter, and I could not be happier about it. Ten pounds of hair, a couple of bald patches, four periods in two months, face sagging off of my skull and 100 Prilosecs later and I am almost free. My last day is next Wednesday, and if you listen closely you might hear the sound of jubilant laughter followed by the screeching of tires pealing out of a parking lot. I would like to add that the people I worked with were fantastic, truly, but enough is enough. I just started The Job I Can't Blog About on August 1, but I am a lucky, lucky girl, because I found what could very well be The Best Job Ever.

Best Job Ever came to my attention last Monday, because Current Husband was spending most of his days looking for jobs for me. CH was not a big fan of The Job I Can't Blog About, as it dramatically increased The Wife's stress level and cut back on his Getting Laid Time. When men don't get laid, they spring into action. CH found the job on Monday, I sent my resume on Tuesday, I got a call on Wednesday, I had my interview on Thursday, an offer on Friday and gave my notice on Monday. Best Job Ever is about me selling tools one uses to make wool hooked rugs to individual artisans and distributors across the country, making the Facebook, Twitter, and website pages for the equipment (hello, social media time!), creating a product catalog, and traveling once a month to trade shows for rug hooking. That's right, people...

I've taken a job as a hooker.

And I couldn't be happier about it.  Obviously being a hooker is going to bring in more money, and there is profit sharing in the hooking field.  CH has already reaped the benefits of my new hooking career, which I begin on November 1.

As long as we are talking jobs, let me tell you about the Career Fair I attended today as a representative of my current company.  First let me point out that perhaps the person who just gave their notice after working there for two short months is not the person you want working your career fair.  As I walked out of the building at The Job I Can't Blog About, six different people told me to take their resumes with me and pass them out to other companies.  I told a number of people attending the career fair that I know of a position opening up next week at my company, so maybe I found my own replacement.

If you really want to get depressed, hang out at a career fair for a couple of hours in this economy.  There are some really well put together people who seem to have a solid background in their field who cannot find a job.  There seems to be a preponderance of very competent looking single mothers who can't get a living wage or a position with benefits to take care of their kids.  But I am not here to depress you, Wifers.  I'm here to be snarkily delicious, so let me give you my Top Hints of What Not To Do At a Career Fair:

1.  Do not tell the person in the booth you hate their company.  I honestly had a guy walk up, say he hated my company, and then take an application and ask if he could drop it off later.  Um, sure?  Do you want me to slap you when you turn it in?

2.  Do not say that you saw the position you just asked about in the paper and that we will never hire anyone at the salary listed.  And again, she took an application, filled it out, and dropped it off with me later.  Good luck in your job search.  Honesty is important....except when you are unemployed and trying to find a job.  A little less criticism, a little more smiling.

3.  Do not say that my company would not be in existence without the ball bearings/fexor valves/paper rolls your last company produced.  And then, you guessed it, took an application and filled it out.

4.  Do not wear any clothing that has Disney characters embroidered on it.  I swear to you, I would rather see you in a plain t-shirt with a forearm tattoo that says "Fuck Tha Police" than a sweatshirt that says "Tinkerbell" on it.

5.  Do not tell me you missed out on picking up a job posting because you were outside smoking.  My parents smoke, and I love them dearly, but in an employment situation you might as well say, "I'd like to have frequent breaks, smell badly, go through Nicotine withdrawal, and die early for your company."

6.  Do not walk with determination to my booth, throw down your resume, and walk away.

7.  Do not look at the job postings on the table and say, "This better not be another job requiring a Goddamned degree."

8.  Do not put your hand in the bowl of Hershey's kisses, grab as many as you can, stick them in your pocket, and then ask for an application.  Those kisses might as well be paper clips or blank checks.  Take one, and move along.

9.  Do not rant about how crappy your last job was.  Or I might be forced to write "Potential Shooter" in the Position Desired box on your application.

10.  Do not tell me we have no jobs that interest you, and then ask me for an application to show your unemployment officer.  Need more unemployment benefits?  Fine.  But let's all be a little more subtle about it.

Don't get me wrong, Wifers.  I am extremely sympathetic to serious people looking for employment.  It's a tough world out there, and I wish I could make it a lot easier for a lot of people.  I also know it's no fun to feel like you are stuck in a job you hate.  BUT.  If you are a Tink-wearing kisses-stealing anger-spewing company hater, fresh off your Career Fair smoke break, you just aren't going to get my gold star on your application.  And I'm not even the HR director, but I'm collecting the first impressions for him.  Also?  Remember that a smile goes a long way.

And I am smiling, honey.  Oh yes I am.  Have a great week! 

    

He said, she said

Current Husband and I have set roles in our household:

CH
TV systems, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Cell phones, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Investing, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Computer systems, usually consisting of...you get the idea.
Directing of yard work.

Bringing in the bulk of our income.
Making suggestive comments about sex, usually in a hopeful tone.

Julie
Everything else.
Instigating the actual sex.

I will say that since I got The Full Time Job Which I Can't Blog About, CH has really stepped up to the plate, and he now gets the younger kids ready for school in the morning, and he is in charge of driving The Son to his 5x a week tackle football practices and his flag football games, while I drive Youngest and Oldest Daughters to their music/dance lessons.  Of course, we no longer have Family Dinner because of said activities, which makes me very sad.  I have always been a big proponent of the Family Dinner.  So how do you say, "I'm sorry kids, you have to give up cello and a potential scholarship so I can see you fight at the table"?


Anyhoo, CH and I had to call in a plumber last week for an emergency leak under the sink, which seems to have happened after our home inspection, and YET, the floor in front of the kitchen sink is somewhat soft even though the plumber, who was awesome, stopped said leak.  Seems like perhaps it would take a long time for a subfloor to become soggy, but what do I know.  Then yesterday, we had an electrician come in because we can't run the vacuum cleaner the same time the air conditioning, or perhaps a toaster, is running, so we had to replace the junction box.  Cha-friggin-ching.  And?  I couldn't do laundry because the dryer had a European outlet.  That's right.  I bought a house in Iowa which accommodates European appliances.  We are THAT classy.  I can hear the sound of laundry drying right now, so it was worth the grand we dropped on it.  As a matter of fact, we have so much money that I am drying about $10,000 in fives in my American dryer plugged into a North American outlet right now.


CH held down the fort while the bunk bed installers came into the house (far and away the best $50 I've spent), so now my son can be disoriented and fall from six feet in the air at night when he needs to use the bathroom, but at least The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About has benefits.  


Now we need phone jacks installed, because this house apparently has two, and one of them is under the phone nook that is Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein's new bedroom.  (My Dad, while moving things into my house, said, and I quote, "That fucking rodent had better not be here the next time I visit, or I'm getting a hotel."  He's not a fan of my taxidermied pet.  Todd shall have his revenge.  Oh yes, yes he will. BWAH HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!)  CH has handled all of the other technical stuff in the new house, so I suggested he call the phone people, because CH is...how do I say...completely anal retentive when it comes to his service providers.  Which we change every few years because no one ever really does it up to his standards.  Here is the conversation:


ME:  "Are you calling the phone company or do you want me to do it?" 
translation: 'when are you calling the phone company?'
CH:  "You can call them, they should come this week."
translation: 'you can call them, they should come this week.'
ME:  "Uh, that's fine, I'll call, but you are never happy with it when I do it."
translation:  'I can't believe you are making me do this. It is SO not fine.'
CH:  "What are you talking about?  That never happens!"
translation:  'I am the easiest person to please on the planet. Let's have sex.'
ME:  "You are NEVER happy with any service I schedule.  Something always goes wrong."
translation:  'I am not responsible for what will inevitably go wrong, and I will buy art if you get angry with me in any way.'
CH:  "That is so not true."
translation:  'that is so not true.'
ME:  "We'll see."
translation:  'asshole.'


So this morning I am at The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About, and I decide to call Qwest and get it over with.  I call the toll-free number, and after five different numeric commands, I am in Hold Hell.  I was on hold for SEVENTEEN MINUTES, no kidding, and the entire time I had to listen to over-enthusiastic jazz with an over-enthusiastic announcer telling me all of the super Qwest deals I have the opportunity to pay them for, and how much they value me as a customer, and how a representative will be with me soon.  If I could have reached out and touched Joe Voice-Over, he would be Soprano Joe.  Darien came on the line, and asked if he could help me, and I said, "Darien, I know you don't control the hold music, but it's really awful and I want to kill someone."  Darien said, without missing a beat, "I have to listen to that hold recording about 10 times a day, and it makes me want to hurt someone too."   Whoa.  I was dealing with a professional here.  Darien and I were going to get along just fine.

He took my order for two additional phone jacks in the house, and while he was scheduling the service he told me about his five kids, one of whom just bought a car in Korea, and how he loves Dancing With The Stars.  I don't, but Darien I could just sop up with a biscuit he was so sweet.  As Darien is giving me my confirmation number for my service order, a message from CH pops up on my computer screen.
"Call me before you call Qwest."  

Too late, M-F'er.  I have a confirmation number.  Unbelievable.  I call CH.

"Well, such and such just told me he can do it and it will be cheaper, but he can't come over until Thursday, so maybe you can get Qwest to delay the service until we find out for sure that this guy can do it....."

I stopped listening at "Well," and started thinking about the rooster painting I really want at Five Star Salon Spa.  Momma's getting some art.  Thank you, Darien.  It was a pleasure.