Oh, Canada

9 Jul


An especially epic Monday at The Brothel, as Boss pulled an MIA, with a twist. 

…He’s really good at doing that.  I’m sure at some point he even lettered in it.  I wouldn’t half blame him for being bummed it never got selected as an Official Olympic Event…mostly because he would be in London right now MIA-ing, instead of here doing it.  And who wouldn’t rather MIA overseas, if given the chance?

…But what made this Monday more epic than the usual was that it featured a surprise guest appearance from our good friends up north, and a sales day of $70,000. (That’s a lotta lap dances, friends.)

It all began before I got there: A truck waiting for product to ship out, which was still literally being assembled in our warehouse.

…I wasn’t aware of this, of course, because why would anyone tell me? All I know is a couple of seconds after logging in, Boss was calling on line one:

Boss: Hi.  I think we have a Canada load.

Me: When?

Boss: Now.  They’re in the yard.

Me: Where are the contracts?

Boss: I dunno.

Me: And the Customs paperwork?

Boss: I dunno.

Me: How many are going?

Boss: Four or six.  I can’t remember.

Me: How many locations?

Boss: Five?

Me: So, four or six might be going to five locations, with no contracts or Customs paperwork and they are in the yard to collect them now.

Boss: Pretty much.

Me: Anything else you wanna “not” tell me?

Boss: Yeah.  I’m working from home today.

…And that was that. 

Not from lack of trying, did this end my attempt to grasp more information. Like squeezing a tube of toothpaste which ran out yesterday, I did my damndest to get more than was apparently a physical possibility.  You try “this” attack, you try “that” one…you eventually grab some scissors and begin to attempt strategic surgical removal, even. But the tube is only a tube.  There’s no toothpaste in it. It can’t help you with what you need.  It’s completely useless.  And at some point, you just have to face this truth, and move  on.

So I did.

…This lead me to five people (by turn) at Corporate who decided to take breaks and go to the bathroom in one simultaneous herding group, all morning long.  Call after call was made, but no human contact could be gained. Eventually, hour two rolled by, while a perfectly nice Russian Teamster waited for the idiot  Americans to get their damn shit together, enabling him to cross into Canada without geting arrested and deported.  Then, suddenly at 10:15…without warning or cause…a “bing” hit my email, and the contracts materialized online.  It was a magical moment for us all. I threw paperwork about, scribbling on them furiously, getting them out the door to our Product Pimp in the warehouse, who by this time was sweating bloody-houses and offering to pay me to slit his throat as a good humanitarian gesture.

I declined.

…Meanwhile, I went back to working on reports.

For a Brothel, we keep a lot of records. 

The Big House, insists on it.

…And I’m the only one who updates them, because lets face it, Boss forgets things like  seven-ton International shipments, and his car keys (on a regular basis)…do you really think he’s gonna remember a thousand-dollar purchase order in Sequim? 

So, I went back to that. 

Reports, I mean.

…The same variety that I have to update every Monday.  Which is a very unsatisfactory accomplishment, end-of-the-day, even if I’ve managed to swim through five or six.  Because the “numbers” are just placeholders, ever-changing.  And because though you have hell to pay if you don’t do themno one (and I really mean no one), will ever open or read them.  Except in random-selection auditing. Once yearly.

…Which is why, by the time I finally arrived at the Open Orders sheet for the weekend…I kinda wanted to cry.

The Open Order report is one of only two, around which my entire work-life is based.  And because it is for “me” and not “other people,” it always comes last.  But in it, is the actual workload for which I was actually (once upon a time) hired to do. If you strip all the Boss’-job crap away, this is what I am legitimately responsible for…but since it is the absolute last thing I get to do, I feel a sick necessity to complete it no matter WHAT the day has thrown my way.  It is, after all, “my job.”  The real one.  Not the fake one I don’t get paid to do.

…Now, one look at the report today (at oh say…3:30…when I was finally able to get around to it), clearly showed that either some dude was out handing pimp flyers on Mall Blvd all weekend, or we had had an ad, which Boss had (big surprise) forgotten to tell me about.  The new orders list, by end of processing, was upwards of 70k.  By the time I got done just printing and coding the jobs, it was 4:15.  Aside from ER’s and Special Orders, not a single call had been made at all.

…Which basically turned today into one giant clusterfuck of non-accomplishment…(aside from the fact Russia doesn’t have a “hit” out on us for setting up one of it’s citizen in what might look to some, like a severely incompetent smuggling ring.)

It was one of those days where I worked my ass off all day long, and have very little to show for it. Only glorified “prep-work” for tomorrow.

…I mean sure, I could have stayed there to finish it.  I could have stuck it out, till about 9:30…where, with no phones to answer, I might have actually finished everything I was supposed to do today…before International trade unions, and cargo embargoes shat all over me.

Instead, I chose home. And dinner. And flashing a giant bird to the Brothel establishment, as a whole, for the remainder of the night.

The paper can wait.

Warning signs that I’m already reaching a tipping point for the week, on the first day back, cannot.

Must rest. 

Must let it go.

Must make it to Tuesday.

…Where no doubt, another marvel of ridiculousness awaits us all.



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