The Bitterness Blog

Leave the kid with me. Then he’ll learn what life is really like.
May 10, 2010, 7:12 pm
Filed under: Work Bitching

A couple of weeks ago was National Take Your Sons and Daughters to Work Day.  I feel like I really don’t even need to write about this, because I think it goes without saying how I felt about it.  I don’t care if it’s a nationally sanctioned day or not; unless you work in childcare, I don’t want to see your kid at work.  (And if I am working in child care, go ahead and prepare for the End of Days because hell has officially frozen over and it’s all going downhill from that point.)

Now, when I was a kid, the idea behind taking your kid to work on take your kid to work day was to show your child what mommy or daddy does to bring home the bacon, and to illustrate the concept that money doesn’t grow on trees and your parents have to actually do something day in and day out to keep you stocked up on food, shelter, and toys.  It was supposed to be interesting in that you were getting to see your parents in a way and in an environment that you never really have access to otherwise, but it wasn’t exactly fun unless your parents happened to do something insanely cool for a living.  But I’m old, and apparently times have changed, because National Take Your Kid to Work Day was a fucking circus at my temp job.

Instead of the kids following their parents around and seeing what they actually do at their jobs, the kids were put into groups and did activities all day long, such as, an informative trip to the Apple Store and a gymnastics hour.  Topper Shutt, a local weatherman, came and did a presentation on meterology, which would make sense if the place I’m temping at had anything even remotely to do with that field of study, but it doesn’t.  Also, on a side note, Topper is insanely short.  Like, 5’5, tops.  The kids all got goodie bags to take home, including a CD of their adventures that day and a certificate (acknowledging that they learned what, I don’t know).  A shit ton of money was spent on the goodie bags and all kinds of food for the kids, and besides my general dislike of children, it just seems to me that entertaining the kids all day isn’t really in line with the original intent of the day.  However, on the official website for Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day, Barbie is the sponsor, so…yeah.  Perhaps there is some evil genius in convincing kids that work is a place where you go everyday to be entertained and fed, because maybe they will operate under that illusion happily until they actually get a job and be excited to get one because they have high hopes for how fun it will be.  But it’s just delaying the inevitable letdown that 90% of Americans experience when they realize that unless you are lucky enough to get  your dream job and get paid well for it, work bites.

But you know something that made work bite even more than usual for me that day?  The presence of swarming children.  They were INSANELY loud.  I would be standing waiting for the elevator, no kids in sight, but I could hear the sounds of their shrills.  They were like termites; it was coming through the walls.  Also, I got on an elevator once after a group of them stepped out and it smelled like fart.  Then the elevator stopped on the next floor with only me on it, so the people coming on probably thought I was the one that farted.

Fucking kids.

Don't be fooled. They may look cute, but they're loud and they smell.


Fire in the Hole
March 17, 2010, 1:55 pm
Filed under: Musings of a Random Nature, Work Bitching

Guess what?  The endless days of sleeping, eating, and watching Wife Swap have come to an end for me, at least temporarily, because I have rejoined the world of 9-5ers.  I’m working a temp job, replacing someone out on maternity leave, and as you can imagine, I am super excited about it.

SUPER excited.

You probably thought that since I’ve been bitching and moaning for months about being unemployed I would be overjoyed to get a job, even a temporary one.  And you wouldn’t be entirely wrong.  I am happy to get out of the house and to be bringing  in more change than the measly stipend I was getting from the local government.  I am, however, unhappy to be getting up when it’s still dark out and unhappy to be sitting in rush hour traffic twice a day. And most of all, I’m reminded of how unhappy I am to have to talk to other people for 8 hours a day, 40 hours a week.  But the good news is that I haven’t been here long enough to become bitter and jaded with the place and its inhabitants.  I’m estimating that will occur some time next week.

Until then, I thought I’d share a little conversation that took place between my father and I last night.  We were watching the Caps game (Caps won 7-3, FYI) and for some reason my dad is a bit fixated on one of the local Caps newscaster, Lisa Hilary.  I don’t mean fixated on her as in, finds her attractive.  Rather, at a recent game, as she was doing an intermission inteview with a player, my father turned to me and said, “Jesus, Lisa Hilary looks old.  How old do you think she is?”  Apparently, Dad feels female newscasters should be a tad more youthful, and as he eloquently pointed out, Lisa Hilary is “no spring chicken.”  This led to a discussion during last night’s game about whether or not any of the Caps are boinking Lisa Hilary. We figured we could cross the young Caps players off the possibilities list because they can easily snatch themselves some young poontang.  My father suggested the oldest guy on the team, who is 37, but who I pointed out is also married, to which my father replied that married doesn’t mean faithful.  (And don’ t you wish you were my mom right now?)  While married might not mean faithful, I feel that old, married, and gainfully employed translates into lacking sufficient time and energy to have a scandalous player/newscaster affair.  My father’s reply:

“Just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there isn’t fire in the furnance.”

And that sound you hear is me crying on the inside.

I May Not Look Homeless, But at This Rate, I Soon Will Be
February 3, 2010, 4:48 am
Filed under: Work Bitching

Before my illustrious career as a receptionist, I had an illustrious career in the grand old hospitality industry.  Yes, since day one of my working days, it has been my job to be the person that others look to when shit work needs to be done or someone needs to yell.  I worked as a hostess in restaurants during high school and college, and I’ve been thinking that working again as a hostess might be a good idea during this “transitional” (read:  jobless and rull broke) period of my life.  Even though there was PLENTY to be bitter about when I worked in restaurants, it was also the most fun I’ve ever had at a job, partly because it’s fast-paced so time usually doesn’t drag on, partly because the median age of employees skews young, and party because drugs and alcohol are plentiful.  So, grand idea on my part, no?

I applied to host at a restaurant in Manassas because it would be a very short commute.  Now obviously I could get a higher hourly rate at a place in DC or Tyson’s Corner, but I figured that the cost of commuting would negate those extra couple of bucks.  Anyways, the place in Manassas is the equivalent of a Damon’s or Ruby Tuesday’s as far as price point, clientele and atmosphere goes.  So I walked in and filled out an application, and then the manager, who could not have been a day over 30, spoke with me.  And this is what he said:

“Look, I don’t want to BS you.  You’re not the kind of person who works here.  You don’t look like the people who work here.  You don’t dress like the people who work here.  You don’t talk like the people who work here.  You would be the only person here with a degree.  I just want to be honest with you.  The kids that work here aren’t even working here while they go to school; they’re not going to school.  I wouldn’t want you to start working here and realize after a week that you can’t deal with these kind of people.”

Um….thanks for your honesty?

“So why don’t you think about what I said and then give me a call if you’re still interested.”

Yeah.  So.  I thanked him for his directness, because frankly, what else could I do?  I’m not going to say it’s not flattering to be told I’m too classy for the joint; it is.  I’m glad I don’t even look like the (apparently) complete degenerates who work there, but my question is, do I look employed?  Because I’m not, and I’d like to be.  I’d like to think that when I take my spot on the corner in South East DC, the other hookers will also take note of my innate classiness, but I sure as shit hope they don’t run me off for looking too clean, because homegirl needs some cash.

Eat This.
January 12, 2010, 10:28 pm
Filed under: Work Bitching

Now that I’ve been out of work for a solid month, I have to say, I’m settling into unemployment quite fucking comfortably.  I’ve been reminded of possibly my best and most finely honed skill:  sleeping.  I sleep like it’s my job, and at this point, it pretty much is.  Also, I can rock wife beaters and flannel pajama bottoms like nobody’s business.  I desperately need a haircut and a reason to leave the house, but Christ if I’m not well-rested and comfortably dressed.

Years ago I saw an episode of Oprah in which she recommended starting a journal and each day writing down one thing you are grateful for.  You know, to keep your spirits up and remind yourself of the good things in your life instead of focusing only on the bad.  So in light of my recent ass-raping my by former employer, I thought I’d make a list of things that were shitty about my job and which make me grateful that I never have to go back to that hell hole ever again.

To wit:  vegetarians.

One of my responsibilities was to order lunch for the whole company every Friday for a weekly meeting.  I had a budget, which was pretty low, so my options were already pretty limited.  I tried to provide some variety so we weren’t eating the same thing every week (i.e. pizza), and I got really excited when a friend of mine suggested I try Chic-Fil-A, because people love that shit.  I ordered chicken wraps, chicken tenders, entree salads, and dessert.  A veritable feast, no?

I sent out an email telling everyone what the lunch would be in advance and immediately received a reply from a chick named Megan wanting to know what the vegetarian option was.

Um, salad, obviously.  And dessert.  You’re welcome.

Megan wrote me a paragraph long email about how the vegetarians were always being forced to eat tofu, salad, or veggie sandwiches.

Um, hi.  Welcome to being a vegetarian.  What the fuck do you expect?

Megan offered to provide me a list of organic, vegetarian restaurants we could get catering from.  I laughed at this but told her to go ahead, I’d be THRILLED to check out her recommendations, and by the way, our budget is $850 a week for 160 people.  Have yourself a field day, because I can guaran-fucking-tee you that specialized vegetarian options, even if they exist in Northern VA, do not fit within that budget.  Crappy fast food barely fits within that budget.  Chick-fil-a didn’t even fit within that budget.

Not surprisingly, she never bothered to create that list for me.  And now she never will.

Score one for me.

Happy Anniversary to Me
January 12, 2010, 3:55 am
Filed under: Work Bitching

As of today I have officially been unemployed for one month.  My parents must be so proud.

Even this bitch can get a job.

Even Hookers Get the Dough in Their Hands First
January 7, 2010, 4:45 am
Filed under: Work Bitching

Have I told you how excited I am to be on the job hunt?

Yup. That pretty much sums it up.

I just had a little discussion with myself as to whether or not it is appropriate to categorize this post under “work bitching” since “work” implies the state of being employed, which is a state I do not live in.  But bitching about lack of work is still bitching about work as a general concept, I decided.  So there.

One of my favorite things about job searching is how incredibly repetitive it becomes.  Yesterday I applied for a job through Monster, except when I tried to apply it directed me to the company’s site.  That site had me upload my resume and then fill out an online application that basically asked me what was on my resume.  A tad redundant.

The other day I got a call from a placement agency I had emailed my resume to.  So the guy calls me and asks me what I’m looking for, summary of background, do I have a problem being drug tested, am I a felon, etc.  He asks me to come into the office the next day to meet with him and tells me he will email me a confirmation first.  When I get the email, it asks me to bring 2 copies of my resume with me to the meeting and to reply back to the email with a copy of my resume.  So we’re up to 4 copies of my resume, two hard copy, two electronic.  When I met with the guy, he literally asked me the EXACT SAME questions he had asked me over the phone.  Not a new question in sight.  And while I was there I had to fill out an application on my employment background, a.k.a, shit that is already on my resume.  Sweet mother of God.  I’m assuming that companies have you fill out separate information that contains the info from your resume because they are going to put that information into some form that is particular to their company to create their file on you, and while I understand that, I still object to it.  You’re asking me to fill that out instead of paying some lackey at the company to go through my resume, pick out the pertinent info, and data-entry it up into their format.  I have plenty of menial tasks in my future once I do get hired.  Please do me the courtesy of waiting until you’re paying me before you shove tedious and annoying tasks down my throat.

If I Die Today in This Office, Someone, Please Sue
November 25, 2009, 8:31 pm
Filed under: Work Bitching

It’s 3:25pm and seeing as it’s the day before a holiday, NO ONE is at work…but  me.  I can hear crickets chirp.  Tumbleweed is rolling by.  I haven’t had contact with another human being in roughly an hour.  But my boss rolled out without saying a word at 11am today, and everyone else in my department is gone, so there isn’t even anyone I can ask about leaving early.  I’m tempted to just go.  Feeling very conflicted.  Fuck. Me.  Were I to be struck by a heart attack right now, I would die alone in this office unless I could reach for the phone in time to dial 911 before floating down to the underworld, because there is no one here to help me.  And that’s not really a safe working environment, is it?