Archive | November, 2013

…And Then Tennessee Williams Ruined Me!

24 Nov

image

For a west-coaster born-and-bred chick, I have a total and complete sick weak-in-the-knee obsession for the Southern Gothic. 

…There is something about the heat and hysteria and inborn-overtly-entitled meanness of a Tennessee Williams play that absolutely slays me.  And it always has.

I have a distinct recollection of the first viewing of “Streetcar” in fact, that left me sexually confused and breathless for about a week.  I was a pre-teen, at my Aunt’s house, supposedly “babysitting” at the time.  In reality: the kids were asleep, I had raided the pantry for the absolute last ounce of junk food, and was drooling over TCM (my biggest weakness of all time.)

…That is, until Brando showed up in his sweat-stained t-shirt, and his gross-mean-horrid ways.

Brando was too much man-meat to handle in one sitting, come to find out. And  even then, I knew there was something intrinsically “not right” about wanting to be Blanch DuBoise when I grew up.  But god help me, that bastard playwright confused my lust of art so much, that I’m still not entirely sure WHY.

…All I knew from THAT MOMENT of “…young man…young, young man…”, is: I wanted to have a “young man” at some point, and say those words…and be Vivian Leigh, and bed a dude like Brando, who was a giant machismo dick. (and probably had one.)

That is a lot for a twelve-year-old to take in.

It’s a lot for a 33 year-old.

…What I figured out (in retrospect) is that, despite my latent Cougar-like tendencies, (apparently), I ALSO wanted a man to be ” A MAN,” and above all: I wanted to be a great “Actor.”

…An “Actress” (in title) seemed trite somehow.  And fairy tale-ish.  Or “cute.”  It’s sexist, but true. Everyone always seemed to take men more seriously so  that was the night I decided not ONLY did I want to say great lines by great writers, but to be “sir’d” while I did it. And from that night to this: it has never changed.

Film had frequently changed my life up to that point, for various reasons.  It had already made me want to act. It had already made me mad for character work and accents and periods not of this time.  What THAT night did, was introduce sex on screen in a TOTALLY different way to me.  And also the seriousness of the content being performed. 

…Before “Streetcar,” my first love had been musicals…(where sex is wrapped up in kissing and plots were formulaic)…and my personal idol: Audrey Hepburn (where sex was classically chaste and plots mostly uncomplicated.) “Streetcar” rocked my world with the possibility of messy, horrid, violent, excruciating “other” options to that mix. That people underwent this in “life,” I totally got. That people were aloud to SHOW it in PERFORMANCE, I had (until then) absolutely no idea.

And because “sex” and “acting out” is such a big fucking deal to young people, “Streetcar” became a BIG FUCKING DEAL to ME. And so did it’s writer. And it has STAYED that way. And always will.

…Which makes evenings of indulgence (like tonight), courting several of his wonderfully flawed characters (worked-up-to-their-sexual-catastrophe-best), an even better treat.

Listen: I’m single. I’m playing a Beaver in a children’s show. I was thirsty. I drank.

…And GOD was it tasty.

“Night of the Iguana,” is no “Streetcar.” But when you wade through the character fleet of “women-of-a-certain-age” set dressing, and get past Richard Burton’s sweaty, overt scene-chewing…you get to witness several sweet-spot moments of William brilliance…which reminds me WHY I love his writing and character work so much. Which takes me back to a twelve-year-old, plastered to the TV like my very life depended on it…frequently forgetting to breathe.

…Deborah Kerr’s smallest of acting choices making ten-times the weight of power than all of Burton’s brayings (for instance), are a thing of subtle, steadied beauty. Ava Gardner’s total disaster area don’t-care-how-shitty-I-look drunken lushness, is excess-of-delight. That scene of painter-to-defrocked-pastor, on the relateability about the true definition of a sexual moment, is brain candy. The poem of an old man: is hope. The bitter-sweet ending: a nod to life’s imperfections.

…Other than perhaps Albee, I know of few modern playwrights who can plot the vilification, deconstruction, enlightenment, and saving-grace of a character to hold a candle to Tennessee Williams. Which doesn’t necessarily mean it ends well…in fact it frequently doesn’t. But to have the opportunity to play…(even once in a career)…someone as flawed and real and naked and ugly and open as he makes his characters to be, is such a terrifying and liberating thought. I can’t help but be jealous of the bastards who get to, while I sit here and wait…biding my time…from TWELVE YEARS OLD, to whenever “middle age” begins to register on my face…and let me finally, finally get the chance…the chance I have waited for, already, for the bulk of my lifetime…to get good and real and dirty, in something as awesomely complicated and disturbing, as the Major Leagues can possibly dish out.

…To play with some text from Tennessee someday?

Delicious thought.

…And totally, totally worth the wait…

~D

Drunken Wassalings & IKEA Breakdowns

18 Nov

image

Today I crossed over into Christmas music at the office. 

…The WHS Pimp made fun of it, immediately, by asking what he ever did to me in life to deserve this. I said something along the lines of, “It’s supposed to make us all jolly and shit, so stop fighting my efforts and be joyful, dammit!”

…Course this was before my first cup of coffee. Were he to ask the same question now, I would have answered that totally differently. Like, without the exclamation mark.

…Not that he can ask me again right now anyway, as he is currently at the dental surgeon’s for pre-op extraction work. Which is gonna be super awesome just before Thanksgiving.

…I’m sure they can throw all the dinner fixins into the blender and make it slurpable for him, somehow. That is, if he is able to work his mouth and keep from drooling by then. It’s like half his face they are taking out…so I’m sure he’ll be shot and doped up pretty good through the whole holiday. And even if he isn’t, he’ll only have about three teeth to chew the food with anyway…so, might as well call it a day on that one.

…Which reminds me that I’ve put off MY dental surgery to take out my (yes still present) wisdom teeth…and I should schedule that sometime before bad things start happening and they have to take half my face out too. Luckily, I am busy being a Beaver right now, so can’t book it until later anyway. Even if I do feel guilty about putting it off again. And paranoid.

…Instead, I’m gonna think about something else. So I don’t start giving myself an anxiety attack…

Listen to this:

My friend Bubba and I used to pop in Christmas music the day after Halloween.

…We’d blare it, and sing it really loudly (even at stoplights), wherever we went. And it was awesome. Especially the Dean Martin songs. Cuz he always sounds three-fucking-sheets-to-the-wind. We two never COULD come to agreement on whether he actually WAS wasted all the time, or just “pretending” to be…but either way, slurring a Christmas song about Rudolph is somehow more hilarious than just about anything. You should try it sometime. Cuz, I gotta tell yuh, Those were the BEST sing-alongs, EVER.

…We made a game of trying to play up the wasted angle even more than he did. (Which is NOT an easy thing to do.) And yet surprisingly, never ONCE got pulled over on suspected D.U.I charges while hurling down the freeway, for reasons that I will never know.

In Other Happenings:

This weekend I spent far too much time in the black hole that is IKEA again.

…The first day, I bought nothing. But I came home, (like I always do from IKEA) with an overwhelming knowledge that all my stuff could look ten times better than it currently does, and WOULD, if I bought everything in IKEA.

…All of it.

Look: I realize it ain’t the highest quality. I get that it is almost as far from “Designer” anything, as you can get. But it is SO FUCKING ORGANIZED that it makes the OCD side of me want to marry it and have it’s compacted-muti-user-functionability-fold-away babies.

…Unfortunately for me…I got home at around 10 pm, from that trip…and INSTANTLY knew I needed to rearrange my entire living space immediately, while the ideas were still fresh in my brains.

…Which ended up with me sitting in the middle of the floor in the living room (the only open 2 foot surface in my entire house by that point) at 3 am, near to sobbing. Because I have a tiny, tiny apartment, and everything just fits, one way, and trying to relocate or change it up made the entire main room look like a bomb had gone off. I was totally exhausted, and frustrated, but there was NO WAY my OCD self would be able to just “go to sleep and work on it tomorrow,” and I knew this, becoming totally overwhelmed.

Coming up with an Emergency game-plan, I decided that ultimately, I might not be able to sleep with shit strewn all over every room, but for some reason…if I condensed and piled it all in the kitchen and closed the curtain t’ween it and the rest of the house…so I wouldn’t have to see it making nonsense out of every OTHER room…it would be okay.

I still don’t know why that addendum law “worked” for me, but it seemed to, so I did it, and got up the next day to sail off for IKEA again, and get the crap I needed to “fix” all the resulting problems I had made myself, the night before.

…This then resulted in spending something like four hours building things with fake tools, yesterday….trying to interpret the little pictures that no longer are accompanied with directions in any language at all. (Which I guess were always pointless, really…as none of the directions were ever in English to begin with. But, still…)

…A fifteen page booklet, with 350 screws, nuts, and thing-a-ma-gees, you’ve never seen before, splayed out across the entire living room…so you can put this simple bookcase together, takes a surprising amount of time, when literally done: stick-by-stick.

The result, (by 2 am THIS morning) was something I could ultimately view and not nut up about. A reorganization and reallocation of stuffs which had been in the same original floor plan since the day I moved in…six years ago.

…This morning, I checked on the front room, “just to be sure.”

…OCD people have to do things like that. “Check,” I mean. It’s like feng shui, on crack. If (for whatever thousand reasons) it doesn’t “fit right” in your brain when taking in the visual of a thing, then you HAVE to fix it. ESPECIALLY when it is the place you live. Otherwise it’s like an itch you can’t scratch that will eventually end up driving you fucking crazy.

…Considering, of course, that you haven’t driven yourself there all on your own…cuz you’ve only gotten five hours of sleep in two days, obsessing over it all, to begin with.

Either way: It is almost fully settled now. A few more swaps of book stacks are still ahead, but by and large…”home” feels like “home” again. A thing my bloodshot eyes are TOTALLY thankful for.

…Meanwhile, if you ever hear me so much as make slight hints at an IKEA trip again…anytime in the near future…I charge you with the full accountability to slap me as hard as you can, point a finger in my face and say: “NO!”

I can almost promise that I will listen.

…And, eventually, thank you for saving me.

~D

The WHS Pimp Tampon Revolution

13 Nov

image

This is a real story:

WHS Pimp was taking a poop. It was at home, on Monday…(which isn’t really important, but I’m all about the “details”)…and anyway, he looked around for some reading material (like you do), finding only a box of Tampons.

…So, he read it.

…And he kept reading it.

…And he read it again.

…And then, he came in today, after fuming over it for two days, walked into my office from outta nowhere, and said:

WHS Pimp: “…First of all: I’ve been buying and looking at Tampon boxes all my life. Right…?”

Me: “Sure.”

WHS Pimp: “…I mean: I’ve grown up with two sisters, a mom, there’s The Ex…it’s not like I don’t get the idea of them.”

Me: “Okay.”

WHS Pimp: “…But what I’m saying is: These Tampon people are fucked up.”

Me: “Sure.”

WHS Pimp: “You wanna know why?”

Me: “I wish you would tell me.”

WHS Pimp: “First of all: it says on the box that all brands use a universal measurement of absorbency…”

Me: “Okay.”

WHS Pimp: “…And they color code it accordingly. Like: ‘Supers’ all equal ‘green’…”

Me: “Right.”

WHS Pimp: “…Now, they figure on the absorbency in measurements of grams. Which, I dunno ’bout you, but I find just weird.”

Me: “Sure.”

WHS Pimp: “First of all: who measures in grams? That’s like metric system kind of bullshit. And what kind of panel or research people has the job of figuring out the amount of grams that people bleed anyway? And also: how does that information help you at all? I mean: how’s a lady supposed to know how many grams she expels? What…they want you to like squat over a cup or something for several hours at a stretch to gauge the general weight? And also: that changes almost daily, and according to your activity…am right? I mean: you have heavy flow times and NOT so heavy flow times…”

Me: “Correct.”

WHS Pimp: “…But then they say a ‘super’ absorbs such-and-such grams or ‘heavy’…and ladies are different, so YOUR heavy time might not be HER heavy time amount and so on. So how’s a poor pre-teen, in like a family of all men with no mother, supposed to figure that shit out?!”

Me: “I never really thought about that…”

WHS Pimp: “Yeah! Right?! So here’s what I think…”

Me: “Bring it.”

WHS Pimp: “First of all: You ladies take a whole lotta shit.”

Me: “We do.”

WHS Pimp: “…They shouldn’t be adding, ‘how many grams am I bleeding right now’ onto it.”

Me: “Right? Those fucking bastards.”

WHS Pimp: “…And also: you’re super badass. I mean you BLEED out of your VAGINA. EVERY. MONTH.”

Me: “It’s true.”

WHS Pimp: “…So I decided, I should open up my OWN Tampon factory and just totally revolutionize the whole system. We’d ax that whole grams/’super’ size crap and just go with ‘simple.’ And market it better. Like with awesome animal names or something.”

Me: ”I’d be down with that.”

WHS Pimp: “See?!”

Me: “And none of the ‘Have a happy period’/ ‘fortune cookie’ bullshit that Tampax pulls. That just enrages me. I’m hurled over a toilet bowl, ralphing from cramps, while bleeding, and when it’s time to change-out, some snarky-bullshit-condescending-marketing-asshat has printed that crap all over the wrapper I’m trying to get the fuck open, and it just PISSES ME OFF. Really? ‘Practice makes perfect?’ Really?! I’ve been a fucking EXPERT at this shit FOR 21 YEARS NOW, thank you…!”

WHS Pimp: “…Oh, I hear yuh! Yeah. There’ll be NONE of THAT, in MY Tampon company!”

Me: “Good…”

WHS Pimp: “…And ALSO: Lets just take the math and measures out of the whole mixture. We have one product, one box, one size: done. Why even waste your time with different sizes to begin with? It’s just confusing. Why not just a one-size-fits all? I mean, wouldn’t you rather just use the ‘super’ …or in MY product line’s case: ‘Panther’…all the time, and be done with it? Less changing. Less mess. Less hassle. PLUS: it’d be like, ‘Hey, you gotta Panther? Yeah I got one. You need one? Yeah, thanks.’ It’s that awesome.

Me: “Ah. And here, we hit the snag.”

WHS Pimp: “…The final animal names are totally negotiable…”

Me: “No, it’s not the ‘Panther.’ You’re right, that is badass. It’s that the amount of flow DOES in fact matter.”

(He blinks)

Me: “Okay…cuz like, you have your ‘Panther’ days…and sometimes your ‘Polar Bear’ days…but you eventually wheedle down to like your ‘small-rodent-Chipmunk’ days.”

WHS Pimp: “Right.”

Me: “Well like…where you can get away with a ‘Polar Bear’ on a ‘Panther’ day…you can’t wear a ‘Panther’ on a ‘Chipmunk’ day. Or a “Deer.” On a ‘Chipmunk’ day, even a ‘Rabbit’ is pushing it. Cuz getting that thing IN is a whole lot different then getting it OUT again.”

(He blinks)

Me: “…There’s…it’s…you have to…there’s dry yanking involved. Maybe like an un-lubed prostate exam. In reverse.”

(He winces.)

Me: “Yeah.”

(He winces again.)

Me: “…BUT, I applaud your efforts ….in concerned study and thought…on making our monthly Mrs. Johnson visits more badass and streamlined and less condescendingly douchey.”

WHS Pimp: “It’s just cuz I care.”

Me: “I know you do, buddy.”

(Long silence as he goes back to his desk.)

Me: “That was a very detailed pooping.”

WHS Pimp: “Yeah. Tell me about it…”

The end.

~D

The One Where They Start Throwing Money

11 Nov

image

Strange how much not like a whore I feel today, being as Corporate finally folded and started throwing greenbacks our way to get us to stay.

…It is a small amount, but larger than we realistically thought they would offer, is set retro-active to the day Boss walked out, and will be the FIRST of a PHASE of raises, impending this year, as the office continues to restructure.

…Which means: I don’t have to keep looking for a job anymore (the worst second full-time job EVER) and I’ll be able to actually pay ALL my bills now, (instead of just running a bastardized Lotto system every month to see who wins all the bucks THIS time.)

Huge giant leaps in the world of less stress…I gotta tell yuh.

…And not only THAT, but the WHS Pimp (acting head of OPS) decided we should split the branch bonus every month instead of just accruing it himself…so a certain someone might even be able to stuff some bucks away now…or like, you know, opt into a retirement plan again (which I haven’t had since my young 20’s.)

About. Fucking. Time. (Says I.)

About. Fucking. Time.

…So, that happened last week.  Along with the usual other work shit…which strangely is a lot less stressful in retrospect with a couple of bucks in your pocket.

In Other News: Inappropriate Beavering continues. I have my first Beaver fitting on Wednesday…which (I have to admit) is slightly terrifying. You guys, they took circumference measurements of my head. And also: we have tails.

…In my brains we look something like adults in furry footie PJs, and those knit beanie caps topped with animal ears, with a four foot plastic shovel sewed to our ass. During fight call last week (wherein I was given a weapon of a rolling pin, that I obviously haul around with me always and merely need to pull outta my Beaver pocket to use as needed), we discussed the concern of tail room in general. With the 30,000 children in this show, the possibility that it WON’T be stepped on (and thus rip my whole butt off at some point), is pretty slim. They had thought of this ahead of time, I guess, as we heard that we will have amended, smaller tails, which just changed the pictoral in my head to look something like a gopher with a giant cling-on poop coming outta his butt.

…Which reminds me…

…At some point we elder Beavers were like, “Um…what the hell kinda noise does a Beaver even make?” So, naturally, I went home and YouTubed Beavers. Which pulled up a whole PLETHORA of range in info…not all of which has to do with Beavers at all. And no, I’m not just talking about sexy stuff. I’m talking about the worrisome amount of adults WORLDWIDE who don’t know the difference between an Otter, a Groundhog, a Ferret, and a Gopher. Seriously. Most of these people were at Zoos…with their children…where the animals are LABELED in various languages. And yet there is clip after clip of Moms and Dads talking to their three-year-old about how cute the Beavers are, when any idiot can read that they are (in fact) Prairie Dogs.

…But after I was done worrying about the poor and utterly misinformed children of idiots, I spent the rest of the time watching National Geographic clips and fucking hilarious Canadian beer commercials.

…Meanwhile…never once finding out the kind of noise that a Beaver makes.

Apparently, it is an unsolved mystery.

Science may NEVER find out.

…So, I think I’ll just make some shit up and go from there.

…This is what we call “Improv.” And is a totally legit thing to teach our Baby Beavers. Unlike the stupid people who scar their children for life by taking them to Zoos and calling Giraffe’s “cows” and shit.

The end.

~D

Gnome Idiot, The Spew

1 Nov

image

Well towards closing the second month of her stay with us here at the Brothel, Gnome Idiot is not any closer to knowing what the hell is going on than the first day she got here. 

…Her dormant posed dead-eye reaction to things being communicated to her is now beyond landing on our last nerves.  We have very few left these days as it is, what with all the covering for a position now no longer in existence, since Boss went by way of extinction.

With four times the work, we could really use the help of…you know…”the help.”  But being frozen from replacing her whilst the branch is still in limbo, we are stuck with this minion who seems humanly incapable of making any choice, save the worst-case-scenario one.  The worst of it (beyond inability to take notes and follow simple repeatedly reinforced directions) is that she is the first point of contact with the outer world. 

…And the outer world ALSO thinks she’s an idiot.

Tons of complaints rush in daily…etiquette and stupid mistake, misspeaks, and unfortunate choice of verbiage being such a varied finger pointing in this instance (and she being SUCH a literal-concept person), that even if we manage to get through to her cavernous brain-parts on why “this” was not the greatest idea of a thing to say, she will go on and fuck it up again by doing the same mistake with different words and not understand how one is the same issue as the other.

The problem is: her brain is not connected to her mouth in any way. This is a dangerous animal to put in a customer service position (I think you will agree.) It’s like her voice is on a vomit-spew setting, that no matter how frequent you attempt to customize and educate it, just refuses to process and update.

…What do I mean by that? I mean things like:

Scenario 1

Idiot Gnome: Um. Yeah. Um, I have a rep on line who wants to buy a display…so um, what do I tell him?

WHS Pimp: We aren’t selling any of those displays right now. We have to wait until they have more road time, and break down a bit before the cost will balance out to sell and build a new one.

Idiot Gnome: Okay. (Back on phone with Rep.) So, um…yeah…we don’t sell the displays n’ stuff until they get more wrecked…

(She hangs up.)

Me: (To Idiot Gnome) Alright, so you REALLY need to choose your words more wisely when communicating with people.

(She looks at me blankly.)

Me: No “ums.” Think before you speak, not while you are speaking…try not to abbreviate words like “and” to “n’.” And “wrecked,” when talking about selling product, is not a good choice of word.

(Still blank. The phone rings. It rings again. And again.)

Me: You wanna get that, maybe?

Idiot Gnome: Okay.

Scenario 2

Idiot Gnome: (On phone leaving mssg) Um yes, this is [Idiot Gnome], we are just calling to verify what repairs you need, or whatever, to give us a call here at [number] but not at the corporate location at [number], okay? Thanks. Bye.

Me: Okay, so here’s a thing…you really need to keep working on your professional phone etiquette, here. And your choice of censorship. Just, think what this call is about…and phrase it in a more positive way. For instance: we are calling to verify they are happy with their product and if there are any questions or concerns, to please call us direct at this number. We don’t want to plant the idea right off the bat that repair needs are such a frequent happening that we make calls after every build to find out what we did wrong THIS time. And for the sake of professionalism, things like “ums” and “whatevers” and “okays” aren’t solid choices. Also, the main point of this call is to get them to contact us directly. Giving them the Corporate number at the end of the message as the last thing they hear and write down, is not the greatest idea.

(Blank look.)

Me: You know what I mean?

(Blank look.)

Me: Seriously. Do you?

Idiot Gnome: (Still blank.) Yeah. Sorta.

Scenario 3

(As she passes back and forth ‘tween offices, hacking, coughing and sneezing for over an hour, open-mouthed and without cover.)

Me: [Idiot Gnome]…can you please do me a favor…just for the sake of the office at-large…since you touch every piece of paper and go in and out every office, is there any way you can do that “cough into your elbow” thing they do in school. To help with germ spreading and things?

Idiot Gnome: (Cough, cough, hack, sniffle) No, yeah…I totally am.

Me: Actually, you’re not. This is about the tenth pass through my office, where you just hacked out a bunch of phlegm over my coffee cup.

(Idiot Gnome stares blankly, and openly sneezes, coughs, coughs and hacks again.)

Me: See. Like right there, for instance.

Idiot Gnome: (As if in explanation.) I have a cold.

Me: Yes. I know. That’s what I’m saying. The rest of us would like NOT to. If you cover your mouth, that might help with that.

(Blank stare.)

Me:…Is what I’m saying.

(Blank stare. Idiot Gnome coughs again.)

Idiot Gnome: Well. I’ll do my best.

Me: That’s all we can hope for…

…Then there are things like:

Gnome Idiot: …Um, I dunno, but I think black is our darkest color…

…And…

Gnome Idiot: …Yeah, I think it’s prob’ly depending on the rain. Cuz if it rains it’s wet, and I don’t think we paint in the rain. Really. All that much.

…Or…

Gnome Idiot: …Um, that’s a really good question, hang on and I’ll ask…(to me) what’s the power source for?

…If I kept a tally roster of her stupid choices and comments in a single day, it would be a full time job, just to log it. And I have enough jobs at the moment. Including dealing with her customer complaints:

Customer 1: Yeah…your reception girl is an idiot.

Me: I’m sorry, she is currently in training at the moment, and we are working with her. Is there anything I can help you with?

Customer 1: No. She’s just an idiot. She has no idea what she’s saying, she lets huge pockets of dead air space on the phone when you ask her something, and she sounds like she’s about twelve.

Me: We are working with her on that.

Customer 1: On being an idiot?

…Or…

Customer 2: Hello?

Me: Hello, how may I help you?

Customer 2: Is this that girl again?

Me: I’m sorry?

Customer 2: Didn’t you just put me on hold?

Me: No, sir, that was our receptionist.

Customer 2: Why the hell have I been on hold so long?!

Me: I apologize, I was on another call. How can I help?

Customer 2: You could fire that girl. She kept picking me up and putting me on hold every time I asked a question, and each time she would come back and have no answer for the last one.

Me: I’m sorry about that, she is currently in training, and as I was on the other line, I wasn’t able to answer her questions at the time.

Customer 2: Well, as her supervisor or whatever, I think you should know, she sucks at her job. Even an idiot knows better then to keep picking up and putting people on hold all the time.

…Or…

Customer 3: This is the fifth call I have gotten from you people in three months. What do want, now?

Me: I’m sorry, I was just passed your call from reception, is this regarding a build or repair or…?

Customer 3: It is regarding nothing. I keep getting a call from some teenager at your store. She leaves these random voicemails I can’t understand. Our thing was built, we signed the paper, what is the deal?

Me: I’m sorry, there is a multiple procedure call system we have to go through for booking and verification. You’ll get the original sales agreement call from Corporate, the install booking call from us, as well as the confirmation call, and a final wrap-up confirmation, in case you have any questions or concerns. It sounds like she was attempting the final call, and had left you a message.

Customer 3: I dunno how I’m supposed to get THAT from what was left on my cellphone, but…whatever.

…And so it goes.

It goes and goes and goes, with new surprising dumb choices, every day. Sometimes we become so frustrated by it, that we wanna punch a wall. Sometimes, we are able to have a moment to appreciate the humor in just how bad she really is, and share it, in wild gesticulations in our office, miming the play-by-play of her most recent fuck up, until we have the other one laughing so hard, they are crying.

…Either way, the unified signal of “dead behind the eyes, and vacant in the brain” that we have assigned to mean both that and our every frustration with her, has long-since been solidified. And it will almost always at least register a smirk in response when given in passing.

Whatever gets you through the day, I guess.

~D

%d bloggers like this: