Ever notice how it's the little things in life that amuse us so much? More to the point, ever notice how it's the silly little idiocies in life that amuse us more than anything else? Well, this is not as much ''the little blog that could'' as it is ''the blog that enjoys going up the down escalator in your local mall.'' Will it have anything of real importance? No, probably not. But enjoy the ride never the less!

 



So far, my ass remains of the unchewed persuasion. But the week's not out yet.

However, it would appear the Queen of Hearts logic isn't limited exclusively to my Head Office, as Mel can sadly attest to. Now, not everyone has seen Mel in what I like to call "Rage Mode." If you haven't seen it before, I heartily recommend you don't push your luck. It's something akin to witnessing the destructive force of Kill Bill's The Bride, a hurricane and pretty much every Chuck Norris meme in existence.

A day or two ago Mel got pretty much slapped in the face with such logic, and spent the rest of the day attempting to not go full Rage Mode...the result of which probably would have torn the universe asunder. It's at times like that I wish I'd gotten her enrolled in kickboxing so she could vent her rage on a punching bag. On the other hand, that would mean her punches to my shoulder every time I enter my patented Baka Mode would be that much more lethal. I don't know about you, but I enjoy my shoulder not being dislocated from its socket.


In other news, apparently I have sex appeal. Yes, yes, I know: it astounds if not downright boggles me too.

As Mel was working yesterday, she chatted with some customers who were perusing the jewelry: an older woman and her early-twenties daughter. Mel happened to mention that her husband (for those of you just tuning in: that would be me, just in case you missed it) worked in the mall. The mother then, with some surprise, verified what I looked like and told Mel that her daughter had been checking me out. According to Mel, when the daughter was informed of this she somewhat embarrasedly said, "Oh. Good to know he's taken, then." Which does make one wonder if I might have been asked out on a date later, had Mel not unexpectedly intervened.

Mel's having way too much fun teasing me about this. But I look on the bright side: for once, the girl crushing on me was older than ten.

Labels: Queen of Hearts logic for the Fail, the unbearable strangeness of being sexy

posted by Phillip at 6:50 AM

 



Last week never happened. Argue its existence all you want, offer all the tangible proof you can, but I shall still deny it occurring. I have Zenned it out of my reality. It has been placed in a box marked "Free To A Good Home" and placed by the side of a road that I cannot see from the apartment window. Ideally someone can claim it as a happy week--dare I even say, a good and cuddly week--and make it their own. But not I. Why, you almost fear to ask, cringing as you anticipate some sort of whiny rant complete with emo oranges?

In a year that hasn't exactly been fantastic, which has itself been following up a prior year that also wasn't the greatest, last week stands out as a singular piece of "fuck me gently with a chainsaw" anger. I am quite certain that last week was designed specifically in mind to enrage me to a point where "fucktwat" once more entered my vocabulary. (And here I'd gone for years without needing to utter it again.)

Last week--and here is where I spit on the ground against it--was supposed to be one of my last hurrahs before the Commercialmas season was thrust upon us. As manager, I get one full weekend off a month, save for August & December. Since those months are so busy our Head Office demands the managerial presence every Saturday. So...this past weekend was to be my last full weekend off for the year. And it was going to be a grand weekend off, filled with plans of relaxation and times spent with friends.

That would be right until, at very near the last minute, one of my employees called out sick with H1N1, taking her out for a week, bare minimum. And she was someone working both the Saturday and Sunday I should have had off. Now I am well aware that she did not set out to get sick, nor was she wanting to spend her time sick...but still the timing couldn't have been any fucking worse unless I was about to leave on a week-long trip.

Worse off, no other store had someone they could spare at such a last-minute notice, and my own remaining store members were: a) unable to work since they hadn't been scheduled in and had already made their own plans (and anyways, I could never force them to work regardless since I'm not evil, and further anyways, I'm pretty sure if I tried to do that it's illegal), and; b) had booked that weekend off well over a month in advance and couldn't take over even if they wanted to.

So as of the end of last week (Spit!), I got to spend my Saturday off working at the store. And to add to the delightfulness of this multiple-uses-of-the-word-'fuck' day, I will probably spend today (Monday) getting my ass chewed off by Head Office for going overtime on my hours. Basically, they only want us to work up to 44 hours a week, since after that we get paid overtime. They make it sound like going overtime is a forbidden act that will result in death, but I'm pretty damned sure that if I have to, they can't stop me due to labour laws and whatnot.

Because this place doesn't pay me enough (and oooooh boy, does it not pay any of their managers enough, hence the reason I'm more than ready to jump this ship the first chance I get), I work the maximum 44 hours a week as much as possible. It's what I had slated myself for last week (Spit!) when I was working under the assumption that I'd have Saturday off and not have to fucking kill that idea. The fact that my employee has H1N1, and it happened at the last possible minute, I know that this should be a health issue thusly exempting me from getting yelled at by my superiors...ironic as that word is currently.

And yet I am certain I'm in for an earful from someone who will refuse to accept Earth logic and me actually taking managerial responsibility for something beyond my control. In the end, I suppose I will have to offer the alternative I could have gone with: taken up 'Plan B: Fuck It' and taken my day off anyways, leaving a single person to work all of Saturday by themselves. A Saturday where we made, at the end of it all, almost four thousand dollars. (That's a busy Saturday, incidentally.)

I could have just waved it aside and let them fend for themselves, happy in knowing I didn't anger the Head Office demigods by going only *two and a half hours* over the standard 44. But dammit, I had to be a responsible person.

The way I see it right now, it really is a case of "screwed either way." I'm damned because I *gasp!* went over my hours by a few. But had I simply not cared, I'd have screwed over my store by having a single person working Saturday, and I know I'd be yelled for that too. I swear I detest the seeming Queen of Hearts logic our Head Office operates by: don't do as I say, do as I say!

Ideally (or unfortunately) I'll make another post in a day or two informing you how much of my ass is left after the inevitable ass-chewing. In the meantime: fuck this all with a rusty, tetanus-carrying pick-axe (with love!). Or better yet, someone dust off my Head Office Appreciation Pancake Maker and hand it over. I feel a need for an alibi coming on....


Today's Soapbox Rant: I don't care how much you scream "Won't somebody think of the children?!" It's your own damned fault your preteen daughter, with her own money on her own time, bought a purse with a Playboy bunny logo on it. We are not responsible for her questionable taste in fashion, or her age-appropriateness for a mere label. There were no naked women on this purse. There was no pornography anywhere on it. As such there was, is and shall forever be no need whatsoever for us to ban, censor or deny any one who wants to shell out the cash to buy it. You can rail against what that label represents, but not to us. That's what public access channels are for. We, on the other hand, don't care. In short: fuck you and your responsible parenting failure.

Labels: the sad but true tale of parenting fail, this is why I hate my job

posted by Phillip at 4:27 AM