Filed under: Work Bitching
One of the worst parts about any front-desk babysitting job like mine is that the line between handling business-related tasks for people and handling their personal shit has a tendency to become blurred. And when I say that, I mean that other people blur the line, whereas I am quite clear on the fact that their latest J. Crew shipment and meatball sub orders are not my goddamn problem. I stand on one side of the line, your personal shit lies on the other, and never the twain shall meet. Sadly I stand alone on my side of the line and most people seem quite comfortable with their expectation that it’s my job to sort through their personal deliveries for them.
People at my new job order lunch in at an astronomical rate. You would seriously think that we work in the depths of Antarctica and every trip outside our 4 walls holds a genuine threat of frostbite and a painful death from hypothermia because these bitches will not set foot outside of the building between the hours of 9-5.
A surprising number of people here actually have enough courtesy and common sense to shoot me an email to let me know they’re expecting food and where it’s being delivered from…but not all of them. One might think that would be redundant because the delivery person will have the necessary information upon arrival, but I learned a long time ago that it’s amazing how much gets lost in translation from the moment the order is called in to the moment it arrives at its intended destination, assuming it even does. It’s a fucking miracle anytime a delivery person makes it to the building without calling me 5 times for directions.
Last week a guy comes in with a delivery order from Z Pizza and dude spoke English like I speak Russian (i.e. not one iota). He didn’t have a name for the order and the only phone number he had was the main number here. I looked at the actual receipt and the name JENNIFER was on it, but it looked like that was the name of the worker who took the phone call, not the person who called to order the food. Just for shits and giggles I emailed and called the only Jennifer in our company to see if she was expecting anything. No reply. I told the delivery guy that without more information I really didn’t know who the order was for but if he wanted to wait a few minutes to see if anyone came looking for it, more power to him. He then proceeded to step out of the lobby area and ask every passerby in the hall if they were expecting a delivery. Awesome, and unsuccessful. Eventually he disappeared from my line of sight, so I assumed he was gone and I continued on with my day.
A few minutes later a chick named Rebecca emails me asking if Z Pizza has shown up. I told her what had happened and that he had left. Rebecca emailed me asking me to go find him and stop him. Bitch, I don’t have a time machine. He left. I’m not going to hightail it down 4 floors and run into the parking lot searching for him. It’s your personal order, so if you want to do that, be my guest.
I don’t know if she found him or not and I don’t give a batcrap. But shortly thereafter I received this email from her:
Thanks. Next time a quick email to the Production and Marketing departments should clue you in on whose order it is. When I emailed you it had just occurred to me that the Z Pizza rep never asked for a name to go with the order.
Rebecca, let me clue you in on something. It’s not my job to start emailing random people throughout the company to find out who the rogue recipient of a personal lunch delivery is. It is YOUR job to use common sense when making the order. Furthermore, since you yourself admit that you failed to give the good people at Z Pizza your name, how exactly did you expect me to deduce what department the person who ordered it might work for? So I replied to that email and said that in the future, she can handle personal deliveries (keyword: personal) by emailing me in advance to let me know she is expecting something to avoid any confusion. Seems pretty logical, no?
It should have ended there, and if I were in Rebecca’s position it wouldn’t have even started, because I would have gone out of my to give Z Pizza the proper info when ordering and if something had still gone wrong, the last thing I would ever dream of doing would be to blame the receptionist for not putting forth the proper effort to track my ass down. But Rebecca is (obviously) not me and she replied back:
Sounds like we both figured out some new ways to help each other out!
Uh, no, we didn’t, but let me help you out. Again. I don’t give a fuck what you ordered for lunch. It’s not my job to make sure you eat lunch every day. Feeding yourself is your cross to bear, and your inability to complete basic parts of the food ordering process is sad and concerning, but still not my problem. Mmmkay? Glad we got that worked out you lazy, self-absorbed cow, and should you ever hope that a personal food delivery might make it’s way to you in the future while I’m at the front desk, you had best either let me know it’s coming in advance like I fucking politely asked or improve your ordering skills right quick.
I felt validated when Jennifer eventually responded to my email and said she didn’t order anything but couldn’t understand why our co-workers had such a difficult time providing the necessary information when placing food orders. Right you are, Jennifer, right you are.
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