Tag Archives: schedules

On The Docket

30 Apr

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Right.

…So, tomorrow is Wednesday.

I have to remind myself because I haven’t had a “normal” week in like two…”normal” not compared to other people, but just in junction with myself even.

I dunno if I’m coming or going, or really to where, or which county it is in.

This has been a problem since I first started the cold meds. 

…Work at home this day, into half of second, then office, then office again, airport run, south-end run, north-end triple runs: show – show – show, close. Mrs. Johnson pops up, birthday happenings…in another state…back home again, day off, think finally kicked cold, south-end again, half day work from home, airport run again, back to office, prep month-end, home to beat down rest of hangover and study for tomorrow, Ma’s to laundry, back home to blog.

…Is there any freakin’ wonder I’m a total mess right now?

Tomorrow is month-end, followed by about three hours of call-backs for “Importance of Being Earnest.”

…Called for Gwendolyn.

…Which means retracting the 40-something Jewish WWII mama, into a refined 20-something, posh, obsessive-compulsive, Edwardian, proposal-magnet.

Pffft!  I can totally do that on a dime! (She says, trying her best to state it without an inherent question mark at the end.)

…Which will only bring us to halfway through the week that already wouldn’t end. 

And this HUGE zit (which apparently has a cousin staying with Marty), just showed up yesterday.  Prime time for me to look my best, in times when it really matters.

…Meanwhile, I got m’first beautiful blue box of goodies from Tiffany’s in the mail, (c/o Aunty L), a new role offer from a theatre up north, (to keep me busy this fall), devoured this little lovely ditty (which I highly recommend for the equally obsessed) and now: I am off to bed.

Sleep.

…Guys, we ain’t even halfway through yet.

Oie.

Oops.

…I mean, “bugger.”

Shit.

I mean, “How very unfortunate that my current lifestyle is so fully without apparent rhyme nor reason,  when it comes to obtaining sufficient amounts of sleep and focus in order to successfully achieve one’s efforts, when one does try so hard to do ones best.”

(A little grindey on the gears there, friend.  Focus-up! it’s game-time!)

~D

Dear Customers Of The World

12 Mar

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We are in the middle of the beginning of a ridiculous sales year on the road. 

The builder bunnies are out in full force, the mass of product trucks are hitting nearly every day, our reps still haven’t figured out how to work a fax machine without shredding nearly every P.O.,  and The Boss is typically MIA.

…This time from an Ulna fracture.

…Because he fell over while playing basket ball with his kids.

Everyone knows that this totally incapacitates you from answering phones or logging into the internet…so it looks like we have 6-8 weeks of totally on our owness, here at the office.  This changes nothing really. It’s just a different excuse from the other ones.

Meanwhile, all those early purchasers who bought around the Holidays to take advantage of sales, are starting to pop up for install dates.  Put on hold of their OWN doing, it now exasperates them without end that they cannot cater-pick the EXACT date that they want to be built.  Because, “Didn’t you know we get first priority?  We bought this 5 months ago!”

…Explaining to these people that “first come first serve” means that people have meanwhile been booking up the calendar as they purchased THEIR buildings, (without putting them on “hold.”) This is a totally foreign concept to the leg-draggers.  Apparently we should have no customers other than themselves, leaving a wide-open range for any date of their choosing from now until June, whenever they get their shit together and finally prep their land.

…Also, we are apparently idiots for building in the rain.

…Though the climate lasts for nine months of the year and always has.  You’d think people would know this, owning land here, but it seems that they don’t.  Or rather, they just don’t care, as long as we don’t build in it, but still on the day they want, so we should not inconvenience them, by making sure that this happens.

…And don’t even get me started with the Bouncers.

(A “Bouncer” is a customer who calls repeatedly, swapping dates back and forth, inevitably getting pissed off when sometime ‘tween change 5 and 6, someone else takes the earlier slot they’d already given up, but now want back again. Mostly only because now, they can’t HAVE it.)

All of this just further proves that people (most especially “customers”) are by and large, hissyfit-throwing-assholes.

(Those of us who work in any kind of sales industry already know this.  But for those who don’t: here’s your little FYI.)

Everyone wants what they want, when they want it, and because we are a Capitalistic society…having all been taught that “the customer is always right,” will be thrown in your face no less than 700 times in any given week.

…But I am here to tell you, that this is a load of shit.  And let me tell you why:

Because no one person is the center of the universe.  Which is bad enough to negotiate on it’s own.  But in our societal frame of mind, we EACH think that we are that “one” person.

…So, apply that concept to the entire U.S. population, and you would have 315,480, 016 centers of the universe, just right now. (according to the U.S. and World Population clock.)

…Which is 315,480,016 people, too many.

In this mode of thinking: money and a hissyfit will buy you anything. And it won’t. It can’t. Guess what, even Bill fucking Gates has to wait for an Amazon box to arrive. Just…like…you.

…And when that Amazon box happens to be an entire building, (for instance)…sometimes that takes even more time to wait for.

BECAUSE IT’S A BUILDING.

We’re not constructing cardboard boxes here. We aren’t filling bottles with Coke products on an assembly line that we can FedEx out to you tomorrow. These are two-ton and more dwellings. They are made by hand. From wood. Cut from a tree. In a forest. And shipped here. To our warehouse. Where we then re-load it. And drive it out to you. And a contractor stands outside all day long. In the rain, and/or snow. To build it. With their hands. For you.

THIS TAKES TIME.

And when you have 549 orders on the books…and 7 contractors…that takes MORE time.

…If you can see what I’m saying.

…Which I’m frankly starting to think would be a bloody miracle, as seemingly not one of our customers seem to be able to.

We have 549 suns who all want individual orbits according to their own laws of physics, time, place and schedule.

Which is not possible. Ask anyone.

…So this is what I’d like to call an open letter to the customers of the world. (Most especially mine, but even your average restaurant-patron will do.)

Dear (Enter Your Name Here),

We know you bought this thing. We know you want it now. But your hotdog/dvd/motorcycle/carpet/computer/garage/Hummer/imported-cigar doesn’t grow on trees. (And even if it does, it still needs to be cut down or picked by someone first.) Someone has to cook/package/build/make/deliver this item to you. This takes “time.” “Time” is this thing which requires scheduling. A schedule, means booking product-per-customer. A customer is one of many people…who also have schedules and times…and…(not to blow your mind here)… but prob’ly customers of their OWN who have times and schedules, as well.

…Taking this into consideration: you all are just going to have to man-up like a 5-year-old, and wait in line, like everyone else. Stop pissing your pants with rage-fits. Be responsible enough to pre-plan your potty visits NOW. And when I tell you our lead times are 4 weeks out, when you tell me you want to “hold it for a couple of weeks”…consider that the equivalent of: “Do you have to go to the bathroom now? Cuz the next rest stop isn’t until: ___.”

If your child can do this, I have full confidence that you can to.

Signed,

A Contract-Processing Representative, in the Building Industry

~D

Conflicting Schedules & Farty-Chairs

30 Sep

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I have conflicting schedules today.  I think.  I’m not totally sure, because the latest updated rehearsal call email went MIA and I haven’t heard back from the SM as yet…which is perfectly understandable, as I just figured this out at around 1:30 A.M. when I sent her an email request for updates.  The woman was prob’ly sleeping, (and possibly still is) which, however logical, doesn’t help the fact that I may or may not have a call in 20 minutes, or according to the first schedule at 3:30…or according to “M,” (who was the only human conscious when I started freaking out), possibly 6 P.M.

…What I’m saying is: this is really important, cuz I also booked a movie premiere and theatre tickets for today.

…I kinda have to know, you guys.

Wait! A phone ping!

**later, after reading text, and sending others to the four corners of the globe**

…Alrighty then.  Collisions averted.

(It is at 6…in case you were wondering.)

…Geeze.  Now I need to go make another thing of coffee and defreak a bit.

…And maybe put my eyes in. 

Head’s already wrapped up and sealed in hot curlers so can’t do glasses, and I hate contacts first thing in the morning. Have elected to just go semi blind until now.  Hate how itchy my eyes get…even with the uber fancy Alka Selzer-like cleaning fluid that costs $15 per bottle and special drops to keep them extra hydrated.  It’s like my eyes don’t even WANT some foreign plastic disc hugging the breath out of them for 12 to 18 hours a day, non-stop.  As if they don’t even CARE when they cloud up, like your car windows on a cold morning, (which no amount of swiping, blinking or squeezing can undo), and I can’t see a goddamn thing.  My eyes are selfish assholes, really…when you get down to it.  Everything is all about them.  They’re tired, they’re itchy, they’re dry then strangely teary… 

…Meanwhile…have you ever tried putting all that under stage lights and baking it for two hours?  It doesn’t help the situation.  And neither does the occasional required crying. 

…Cuz when you’re in the middle of being strangled, with tears, sweat and snot running down your face (and 200 people watching), the last thing you wanna be thinking is: “Fuck.  My left contact just washed out.  HOLD EVERYTHING YOU GUYS! I gotta find it real quick…”

In Other News: I am writing this from my farty-chair, which is an amazing feat because I just now realized it…which means it finally “made it” as an official edition to my house. Until now, it’s been “that new foreign thing,” I had to work around and get used to.

…We all know how I hate change. That is by no means limited to major life events…it’s also inclusive with furnishings, habits, and routines in general. I first purchased the farty-chair about two weeks before Puff came up to visit, on the inclination that should we (for instance) both want to watch something on TV at the same time, there would be too many butts and not enough places to comfortably put them to achieve this. So, I bought this chair. I spent THREE HOURS re-arranging my living room, back and forth and back again, to find out where in the hell it would fit best…which was nowhere…because it was “new” and “different” and I never know what to DO with those kind of things…so finally just picked a place and PUT it there. Then I stared at it for a couple of days, like an alien had landed in my house and I didn’t know what to do with it. Well, I DID know, I just didn’t like the answer.

…I was gonna have to “bond” with it.

…So, I girded my loins and began the long and painful process of changing my daily routines and habits JUST to fit in the fucker. Every time my butt hit the mini-sofa, it would pop up again and have to go settle instead in the farty-chair. Every time I settled in with a book, or opened the laptop, I’d have to stop, get up, and relocate to the farty-chair. Everything became ABOUT the farty-chair. And the FACT it WAS a “farty-chair” didn’t help the situation. Every time you’d settle or move in the thing, it would omit a variety of groan-squees…which, because I was still trying to break it in and get comfortable in it, made every evening in front of the TV for two weeks sound like the after effects of a baked-beans eating contest. Just HIGHLY uncomfortable, and not right.

…But by the time Puff came, it had become a thing I could tolerate. I could be in the same room with it and not give it dirty looks and cuss at it’s every flatulence rip. I figured out how to replicate its sounds so that if a small movement happened to manufacture a mock-grossness, I could immediately echo it with movement, thus proving to the public at large that it was the chair that had gas problems, not me. And by the time Puff left that week, I actually had to remind myself a couple times that it was OK to default back to my sweet home base on the mini-couch once again. And did.

…And so, the farty-chair has remained now…mostly dormant. That is, until (for some reason) today. Today, I didn’t think about it. Today, I had multiple schedules in my head and a cup of coffee and laptop in hand. I settled in for a flush of manic emailing, and opened my blog, tucked in with a blanket and got to work.

…And then my coffee ran out. And I looked at the cup forlornly, there: on the side perch footstool-table, beside the…farty-chair? I’m in the farty-chair?!

…”Groan-squeeeeee, ” it replies with my sudden shift in seat of surprise.

“Huh.” I pat it on the armrest. It wags it’s tail.

“Welcome to the family, bub. Looks like you finally made it.”

It passes a gassy sigh of relief.

And I go back to my blog.

~D

A Letter To Mrs. Johnson

26 Aug

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Mrs Johnson:

What kind of person says they’re gonna show up three days ago and then doesn’t until today, banging on the door at 5 A.M.?  I do have a “life” you know, and just hanging around for whenever is “convenient” for you isn’t in the job description that they handed me in that class they gave us in the fourth grade. You know, the one where all the boys went into Mr. T’s room and all the girls got sorted into Mrs. L’s?  Here is what they did tell us:

* She will come every month, 28 days from her last visit.
* She will be a messy, uncomfortable, opinionated and often grumpy house guest.
* At time she’ll be downright unreasonable and emotional.
* Here’s all the stuff you need to have around when she visits.

…It took three years before you decided to show up at all.  Then one summer, right as I was changing into my swimming suit, BAM! there you were!  Instantly!  Like a very sick and twisted kind of Genie.

“What the eff?!” I thought.  “Oh God, I’m dieing!!!”

…This was only a momentary panic. A totally natural reaction for a hypercondriac who was also sure she had “caught” appendicitis from that one girl in school last year, might get accidental explosive bowel syndrome because people never wash their hands after pooping, choke to death at any moment while eating alone, or get gangrene from a paper cut.  I was so used to launching into immediate worst-case-scenario panic at moments like this, that I had (only for a second…or twelve) totally forgotten that little discussion from all those years ago. (Because dog and and kid years equal roughly the same until you turn 18… so that was like 21 years ago, in me-time.)

…But then I remembered.

…And I called my aunt in (at whose house I was, at the time.)  And was like, “Um. So.  Don’t tell anyone…but I’m either dieing of Cancer or I just started my period.” 

And she hugged me. 

For a second I kinda started to panic, like this was the beginning of “goodbye” or something…but then she gave me this odd smile-look when she was done, and started ruffling through the bathroom drawers to “hook me up” with some stuff…like my own personal period Pimp.

…What I didn’t know at the time was that the hug I thought was of pity at first, and then turned into some sorta mini-tribal moment of succession to womanhood…was actually just a hug of pity after all.  Cuz she knew what was ahead of me at the time, and I didn’t. 

It wasn’t so much the, “Oh!  You have achieved womanhood now, and your body has just this instant transitioned into a crazy self sustainable life force garden, where people can be made and grown and harvested, and the entire human race is now an intrinsic part of who you are and the magical capabilities you hold, with an awesome responsibility of our future, just south of your belly button.” 

…Later, I realized it was more like, “Oh, you poor little sunofabitch.  God I’m glad you at least made it to 13 before it happened to you.  With the women in your bloodline, this shit is just going to get unbearable…heaving up meals, rolled up in the fetal position for hours at a time, yelling at the burnt dinner, bursting into tears for no reason whatsoever.  And those’ll be the good months.  I better get you some drugs, pronto.”

She was at a vantage point, like a great Seer on a mountaintop, looking down at me in that little beginning valley being like, “Whelp.  Start trekin’ kid.  I wish I could tell you that once you climbed this hill you’d be done, but there’s like forty years more of ’em ahead.”

I am now on my nineteenth anniversary of that date, after climbing more fucking mountains than the Hobbits, each one a little more steeper than the last.  And I’m still less than halfway through.

…If only they put me in Mr. T’s room that one day, none of this shit wouldn’t have happened!  But it did

And I’m here now.

…So that is the little scenario story of “me,” Mrs. Johnson.  That is how I came into this gig…plopped into this valley with a tiny pack of supplies and told to “walk up.” Every month.  For maybe the rest of my life.  Because at the rate I’m going, surely I’ll bleed to death or my tubes will explode before I ever reach the end of this journey into Menopause.  Which I’m told is this whole hell of a lot of fun too, by the way.

…What I’m saying is: We came to an agreement nearly two decades ago, that like it or not, you will materialize like a fucked up kind of Mary Poppins just floating in on the wind every month.  I will put you up.  I will go along with all the daily demands and requirements that having you around insists upon (and they are never rad things like jumping into paintings or dancing on roof tops…more like puking into trash cans, drinking Pepto like a thing of orange juice, and popping more pills than an acid junky.) And at the end, you promise to eventually leave me the fuck alone, and go bother someone else.  What we DIDN’T agree on was you acting like some teenage floozy just popping up at random hours around dawn, three days late or more, greeting me with a solid punch to the ovaries when I open the door, and taking over my entire day when I had other things I had planned to do.

Mrs. Johnson: You are an asshole.  Just so we get that straight.

…And would it have killed you to stop somewhere and bring a thing of chocolate on the way?  I mean: really.

~D

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