Workplace Irritation
My stint at MI draws to a close, probably ending next Monday. Initially our team, like everyone else in our room, qualified to score six questions. Mainly it's because of how good our team was that eventually had us responsible for twice that number. In my case, I and another team member are the highest producers and also had the highest level of accuracy, so we've been pulled aside more often. To date, I've been qualified to score twenty different test questions. I was prepared to have my plate of biscuits stretched out for as long as there was gravy in the bowl, so despite the technical difficulties that have dragged out this project beyond its projected end, I was not complaining about it at all. Next week will find me looking for another temporary assignment, as I truly don't relish spending the majority of my working hours at that place.
That Place, as I so disparagingly call it, is LB, a major player in retail clothing for plus-sized women, which, by the way, starts at size 14. Unrealistic and Destructive Images of Women, thy name is Fashion. But I'll talk about my gripes soon enough. First, I have a story to finish . . .
Whirlwind Weekend, Part II - Someone's on My List
(Part One)
I got to Dad's apartment, which was packed, though not messily, with items for the party Saturday evening. His is an apartment set up purely for utility as opposed to comfort. No chairs our couches in the living room, just those fold-chairs with the cup holders in them, the ones one would tend to keep in their car for use at a picnic. His dinning area was the location of a card table and folding chairs, and there was a decent television for viewing. He insisted that I sleep in the bedroom, opting to sleep on the floor in the living room. I'd initially protested, since I'm only thirty, hadn't broken my leg seriously a few years ago and likely recovered from such must faster than my now 65 year-old father. Dad was more comfortable with me sleeping in the bedroom and he occupying the living room, so I gave in, and let him be gallant and worry about the security and virtue of his youngest child. As it turns out, I'm not sure if sleeping on the floor would have any different from sleeping in that bed, it was so hard. I'd rather has three squares a day in Fulton County Jail than to sleep on that bed again. You can be sure that I mentioned this to more than one person.
I got up not long after my father headed out to start getting some things set up for the party, I immediately called Kita, since I wanted to get a shower before too much longer and get into some lean clothes. Apparently, Dad had called her when he left to let her know I was there and could be picked up when she was ready to swing by. Kita mentioned that she didn't normally get up so early in the morning, but that she was going to be getting ready to come by and would call our father to get directions. I spend time stretching out, since my back is now killing me from sleeping on that slab of bedrock my father calls a bed, doing crunches, and watching television. I get a glimpse of the bathroom while to do the minimal self cleaning--teeth and face. There I spotted between five and eight toothbrushes in various locations around the sink. I'm not quite sure if my father just doesn't throw away toothbrushes, has a lot of people staying at his apartment immigrant-style, or what. The first thing I spotted is the just short of masculine towels which I doubt were for use and the shower curtain, not to mention two bottles of shaving cream, one for men and the other formulated for women. It's only in the bathroom that one would suspect that my father has a lady friend that spend any time there at all. Considering how the place is set up, it's definitely my father's place.
That didn't mean I really felt like being there, with some woman's items int he bathroom. I certainly didn't want to think about it.
So I stretched , did crunches, washed face, brushed teeth, and was squicked out by the possibilities of my father and amour.
And soon it was 10:30.
A call was made to my sister, who stated that she was just finishing a shower. Okay, no problem. Of course I wanted a shower, too, and I was also getting a bit hungry. She said she'd call my father, and then would be over soon to come get me. She had me talk to her man, which I did for a few minutes, and afterward asked him to remind her to call our father.
11:30
I'm hungry, and really wanting to get out of here so I can shower and feel normal again. I call my father, only to learn that Wakitha hasn't called him yet to get directions. I'm promptly hang up and call her. I give her the address of the place, and she says she'll find the directions, mentioning that she really doesn't want to talk to our father. I remind her that I really do not want to be here any longer than I have to be and that I'd like to have a shower and the like. I ring off, and decide to try and take care of the hunger problem. I find a phone book, rung up a local Dominos though I loath their pizza, and place an order. Everything is going well until they ask me what the building number if for my father's apartment. I go outside, only to discover that there isn't a number on the building, though there is one on the apartment building on the other side of the parking lot. I end up canceling the order, saying that I'll call back once I figure out the building number. In short order I go from impatient, to slightly annoyed, to incredibly pissed. The permutations that my mood goes through is phenomenal. At this point, I'm ready to say "fuck it, fuck you" and get a hotel and a rental car. Doors are slammed, a photo falls off the wall. A shirt is used as a weapon against a poor, defenseless folding chair, breaking the hanger the shirt is on in the process. Wakitha is given a severe cursing, despite the fact that she isn't even there.
I speak to my mother, who mentions to me that it's something I can't really afford to do (I didn't mention that my credit card makes it very affordable). I end up talking to her for about a half hour, after which point she calls my father to get the building number. When she calls me back, I could care less about getting something to eat. I just want the hell out of there,m even if it means getting on the next available plane home.
You are probably wondering now, why I didn't bother to at least address the shower issue. My father's got a bathroom, after all. Like most women, I'm particular about bathrooms. My father's was in decent shape, I'll grant you, and no number of toothbrushes or feminine touches would have prevented me from getting clean. But the one equation you probably haven't factored in is the bathtub. One look at the mold on the grout that sealed the seam between bathtub and tiling on the wall, and I wasn't about to put my body in that space.
So I was hungry, dirty, and irate, though I was trying not to be upset with my father. I think the only reason why I was initially was because it was the relationship between him and my sister that had me stranded there in the first place. My father was prepared to call my sister to give her directions, but he didn't have her number, and I wasn't about to give it out. Obviously she didn't want him to have it, though I was tempted to give it to him anyway. The ire rested in its proper place, though, and I was no longer in the mood to have anything to do with Wakitha. How the hell can you be so petty as to be unable to make a five-minute phone call just to get directions to pick up your damn sister. I wanted to say "get over yourself, grow up, and just deal with it. If you have changed your mind, don't feel like it, or I'm an inconvenience, then don't promise shit you're not willing to do."
12:30, 1:00 or so, I got a call from my father telling me he was on his way. Apparently, my mother called my father again, and asked to speak with his sister, my Aunt Sheryl. Sheryl also lives in Michigan, but had been in Atlanta since Tuesday getting ready for my father's party. She was the main reason why I didn't initially call my father and ask him to pick me up. As I explained to the Moms, I didn't call my father back to his house to deal with the problem because it would have left someone else stranded on my account while my father came . According to my mother and aunt, the Moms told her I was livid, hungry and unable to take a shower, and sick and tired of waiting for Wakitha, etc, etc, etc. Sheryl agreed that my father should come get me, and merely told him to "go pick up your daughter." Dad wasn't privy to the conversation mother and aunt shared, but according to him, "nothing more needed to be said, so I'm coming to get you." I spent the rest of the weekend, aside from my time at the party, at my aunt San's house.
I haven't bothered to call Wakitha since, even to tell her that I was not coming to her place, to tell her where I was staying, or even to say goodbye before I left on Sunday. I figure if the fickle bitch wants to talk to me, she can call. Otherwise, I really don't want to be bothered. Of course, she never bothere to pick up the phone that weekend, either.
I'll Conclude this episode of the Black and the Dramatic in the next post
Off to Friday Night Society!
That Place, as I so disparagingly call it, is LB, a major player in retail clothing for plus-sized women, which, by the way, starts at size 14. Unrealistic and Destructive Images of Women, thy name is Fashion. But I'll talk about my gripes soon enough. First, I have a story to finish . . .
Whirlwind Weekend, Part II - Someone's on My List
(Part One)
I got to Dad's apartment, which was packed, though not messily, with items for the party Saturday evening. His is an apartment set up purely for utility as opposed to comfort. No chairs our couches in the living room, just those fold-chairs with the cup holders in them, the ones one would tend to keep in their car for use at a picnic. His dinning area was the location of a card table and folding chairs, and there was a decent television for viewing. He insisted that I sleep in the bedroom, opting to sleep on the floor in the living room. I'd initially protested, since I'm only thirty, hadn't broken my leg seriously a few years ago and likely recovered from such must faster than my now 65 year-old father. Dad was more comfortable with me sleeping in the bedroom and he occupying the living room, so I gave in, and let him be gallant and worry about the security and virtue of his youngest child. As it turns out, I'm not sure if sleeping on the floor would have any different from sleeping in that bed, it was so hard. I'd rather has three squares a day in Fulton County Jail than to sleep on that bed again. You can be sure that I mentioned this to more than one person.
I got up not long after my father headed out to start getting some things set up for the party, I immediately called Kita, since I wanted to get a shower before too much longer and get into some lean clothes. Apparently, Dad had called her when he left to let her know I was there and could be picked up when she was ready to swing by. Kita mentioned that she didn't normally get up so early in the morning, but that she was going to be getting ready to come by and would call our father to get directions. I spend time stretching out, since my back is now killing me from sleeping on that slab of bedrock my father calls a bed, doing crunches, and watching television. I get a glimpse of the bathroom while to do the minimal self cleaning--teeth and face. There I spotted between five and eight toothbrushes in various locations around the sink. I'm not quite sure if my father just doesn't throw away toothbrushes, has a lot of people staying at his apartment immigrant-style, or what. The first thing I spotted is the just short of masculine towels which I doubt were for use and the shower curtain, not to mention two bottles of shaving cream, one for men and the other formulated for women. It's only in the bathroom that one would suspect that my father has a lady friend that spend any time there at all. Considering how the place is set up, it's definitely my father's place.
That didn't mean I really felt like being there, with some woman's items int he bathroom. I certainly didn't want to think about it.
So I stretched , did crunches, washed face, brushed teeth, and was squicked out by the possibilities of my father and amour.
And soon it was 10:30.
A call was made to my sister, who stated that she was just finishing a shower. Okay, no problem. Of course I wanted a shower, too, and I was also getting a bit hungry. She said she'd call my father, and then would be over soon to come get me. She had me talk to her man, which I did for a few minutes, and afterward asked him to remind her to call our father.
11:30
I'm hungry, and really wanting to get out of here so I can shower and feel normal again. I call my father, only to learn that Wakitha hasn't called him yet to get directions. I'm promptly hang up and call her. I give her the address of the place, and she says she'll find the directions, mentioning that she really doesn't want to talk to our father. I remind her that I really do not want to be here any longer than I have to be and that I'd like to have a shower and the like. I ring off, and decide to try and take care of the hunger problem. I find a phone book, rung up a local Dominos though I loath their pizza, and place an order. Everything is going well until they ask me what the building number if for my father's apartment. I go outside, only to discover that there isn't a number on the building, though there is one on the apartment building on the other side of the parking lot. I end up canceling the order, saying that I'll call back once I figure out the building number. In short order I go from impatient, to slightly annoyed, to incredibly pissed. The permutations that my mood goes through is phenomenal. At this point, I'm ready to say "fuck it, fuck you" and get a hotel and a rental car. Doors are slammed, a photo falls off the wall. A shirt is used as a weapon against a poor, defenseless folding chair, breaking the hanger the shirt is on in the process. Wakitha is given a severe cursing, despite the fact that she isn't even there.
I speak to my mother, who mentions to me that it's something I can't really afford to do (I didn't mention that my credit card makes it very affordable). I end up talking to her for about a half hour, after which point she calls my father to get the building number. When she calls me back, I could care less about getting something to eat. I just want the hell out of there,m even if it means getting on the next available plane home.
You are probably wondering now, why I didn't bother to at least address the shower issue. My father's got a bathroom, after all. Like most women, I'm particular about bathrooms. My father's was in decent shape, I'll grant you, and no number of toothbrushes or feminine touches would have prevented me from getting clean. But the one equation you probably haven't factored in is the bathtub. One look at the mold on the grout that sealed the seam between bathtub and tiling on the wall, and I wasn't about to put my body in that space.
So I was hungry, dirty, and irate, though I was trying not to be upset with my father. I think the only reason why I was initially was because it was the relationship between him and my sister that had me stranded there in the first place. My father was prepared to call my sister to give her directions, but he didn't have her number, and I wasn't about to give it out. Obviously she didn't want him to have it, though I was tempted to give it to him anyway. The ire rested in its proper place, though, and I was no longer in the mood to have anything to do with Wakitha. How the hell can you be so petty as to be unable to make a five-minute phone call just to get directions to pick up your damn sister. I wanted to say "get over yourself, grow up, and just deal with it. If you have changed your mind, don't feel like it, or I'm an inconvenience, then don't promise shit you're not willing to do."
12:30, 1:00 or so, I got a call from my father telling me he was on his way. Apparently, my mother called my father again, and asked to speak with his sister, my Aunt Sheryl. Sheryl also lives in Michigan, but had been in Atlanta since Tuesday getting ready for my father's party. She was the main reason why I didn't initially call my father and ask him to pick me up. As I explained to the Moms, I didn't call my father back to his house to deal with the problem because it would have left someone else stranded on my account while my father came . According to my mother and aunt, the Moms told her I was livid, hungry and unable to take a shower, and sick and tired of waiting for Wakitha, etc, etc, etc. Sheryl agreed that my father should come get me, and merely told him to "go pick up your daughter." Dad wasn't privy to the conversation mother and aunt shared, but according to him, "nothing more needed to be said, so I'm coming to get you." I spent the rest of the weekend, aside from my time at the party, at my aunt San's house.
I haven't bothered to call Wakitha since, even to tell her that I was not coming to her place, to tell her where I was staying, or even to say goodbye before I left on Sunday. I figure if the fickle bitch wants to talk to me, she can call. Otherwise, I really don't want to be bothered. Of course, she never bothere to pick up the phone that weekend, either.
I'll Conclude this episode of the Black and the Dramatic in the next post
Off to Friday Night Society!