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dragonlady7I have given in and agreed to come to work early today. Instead of working 11-7 at busy bar and actually making money, i will work 9:30-3:00 at Torture Bar and make no money. Why is this OK?
Because 3 is earlier than 7.
Also?
They would've made me go down there when I got in at 11 anyway.
So what the fuck ever.
Item: Yesterday sucked. I got to the cash office, exhausted and ready to actually cry with weariness, and when I asked the cash girl, sitting there with my printed-out report of sales, what my charge tips were, she said, "$28."
"But my charge sales were over six hundred!!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah," she said. "That's too bad."
"That can't be right!" I insisted.
"Yeah, it's like five percent," she said. "But that's what it says."
I actually began to cry. I had just counted my cash tips, and they were pretty damn scanty. I could not believe I had worked my ass off like a dog for eight hours to the point of fucking hurting myself, only to make not even ten percent of my sales in tips. Hell, that was barely five percent, when I added everything up. How could that happen? I was so tired, and in so much pain, that yes, I actually burst into tears and left the office.
On the way out to my car, I froze my fingers off and pulled out all the credit receipts from my bag. I keep them. I used to tally my charge tips myself until I realized they get them on the report and could just tell me. Still and all, I still keep them-- for incidents like this. So I wrote down the charge tip total from each receipt. I didn't even add them: I could simply look at them and see that there was at the very least $50 there, probably a great deal more.
Also it had snowed, and we cannot find the scraper for the car, and I had nothing but a squeegee to clean the ice from my car with. This was not working.
So I sat in the car and called the office, and said, "Twenty-eight dollars is incorrect, I can see from the receipts I have in front of me, and so I hope you can sort that out before the totals get added into the paychecks."
"Oh, silly me," the girl said, "I was looking at the wrong column. Your charge tips were $86.04."
Thanks. Thanks, bitch. You couldn't have looked again while I was there weeping in incredulous agony. No. Thanks.
So I got absolutely soaking wet while basically melting the ice off the car with my hands, and was still upset from that whole incident, so when I got home Z said we should go out for a fish fry, and rather than simply going out to the local dive for a fish fry, I asked him to take me someplace where I could get 1) Booze, and 2) Something other than a fish fry, because I'm saving myself for Lent.
So we went to the Pearl Street Pub and Brewery downtown, and I had a ridiculously expensive steak and also not one but three homebrewed beers, and was extensively flirted with by a sub-2-year-old boy in sexy workboots. (I commented on how cute his boots were and he wordlessly held his foot up so I could look at it better.)
So that was nice. I also informed Z that I want to have had children someday, so one of these years I'll probably flip out hormonally. He said he'd mark it on his calendar. I said he better not dare wait until then and then dump me, now that I've given notice. If he's going to dump me, do it before the meltdown, so I have time to find someone else before I enter Desperate Meltdown Woman Stage, because being Single and Desperately Melting Down is just so not cool. Which is why I had him pencil it in on his calendar.
We did both agree, however, that the first like twenty years of childraising are so totally unrewarding as to be nearly un-worthwhile, drawing from our own childhoods, and that both of us are actually repulsed by drooling larvae infants. So these are definitely issues I would have to address, but I still think what it amounts to is that I cannot see myself as an old woman on her deathbed looking back at the world and having no offspring in it. Come on! My unique brand of fuckery needs to be propagated. I can't slip into the hereafter and leave nothing to plague the world!!
But I digress.
And oh, they finally told me the resolution of The Ridiculous Incident.
"The others are all getting written up," HR Lady said, "but all the witnesses agreed that you didn't say anything, so you're not getting written up. But let me warn you-- you are remiss for not having reported the incident! It was harassing behavior and must be reported immediately!" I blinked at her like she was a crazy person. "Everyone takes things differently," she said, repeating a theme she'd used many times, "and so we have to be sensitive to these things."
"Yes," I said, "everyone does take things differently: I took the comment as being an utterly harmless and even amusing statement, and thus saw no need to report it."
That sort of took her aback. See, she has this thing where she goes into Stern Mode, and like, winds up and gets shrill and is all, "I am so fearsome!" and she was doing that, trying to find something, anything, to intimidate me about. She's been using this shrill threatening tone almost nonstop since the whole thing started, and I just can't take her seriously enough to be intimidated, but she is trying. But dude. If the primary foundation of your argument is that "people take things differently" and so the speaker's intention is utterly irrelevant to a discussion of sexual harassment, then you do not have a leg to stand on when someone turns that argument around and says that they took the comment a different way and thus saw no need to report the incident. You do not.
I got home and Poppy Z. Brite had posted something on a similar note, and I was a bit sorry she has comments disabled because I would've posted a "Preach on, sister! Er, brother!" Dude, we all perceive things differently, and that's fine and great and is what makes us human, but it is not only the over-sensitive that have the right to perceive things as they do and have that be taken seriously. WE ALL have the right to have our perceptions respected.
I am still thinking of filing a union grievance over the HR lady spreading gossip about the bartenders' income and poisoning the work environment against us.
Aw, shit, I have to go to work now and my hair isn't dry. Fiddlesticks.
Because 3 is earlier than 7.
Also?
They would've made me go down there when I got in at 11 anyway.
So what the fuck ever.
Item: Yesterday sucked. I got to the cash office, exhausted and ready to actually cry with weariness, and when I asked the cash girl, sitting there with my printed-out report of sales, what my charge tips were, she said, "$28."
"But my charge sales were over six hundred!!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah," she said. "That's too bad."
"That can't be right!" I insisted.
"Yeah, it's like five percent," she said. "But that's what it says."
I actually began to cry. I had just counted my cash tips, and they were pretty damn scanty. I could not believe I had worked my ass off like a dog for eight hours to the point of fucking hurting myself, only to make not even ten percent of my sales in tips. Hell, that was barely five percent, when I added everything up. How could that happen? I was so tired, and in so much pain, that yes, I actually burst into tears and left the office.
On the way out to my car, I froze my fingers off and pulled out all the credit receipts from my bag. I keep them. I used to tally my charge tips myself until I realized they get them on the report and could just tell me. Still and all, I still keep them-- for incidents like this. So I wrote down the charge tip total from each receipt. I didn't even add them: I could simply look at them and see that there was at the very least $50 there, probably a great deal more.
Also it had snowed, and we cannot find the scraper for the car, and I had nothing but a squeegee to clean the ice from my car with. This was not working.
So I sat in the car and called the office, and said, "Twenty-eight dollars is incorrect, I can see from the receipts I have in front of me, and so I hope you can sort that out before the totals get added into the paychecks."
"Oh, silly me," the girl said, "I was looking at the wrong column. Your charge tips were $86.04."
Thanks. Thanks, bitch. You couldn't have looked again while I was there weeping in incredulous agony. No. Thanks.
So I got absolutely soaking wet while basically melting the ice off the car with my hands, and was still upset from that whole incident, so when I got home Z said we should go out for a fish fry, and rather than simply going out to the local dive for a fish fry, I asked him to take me someplace where I could get 1) Booze, and 2) Something other than a fish fry, because I'm saving myself for Lent.
So we went to the Pearl Street Pub and Brewery downtown, and I had a ridiculously expensive steak and also not one but three homebrewed beers, and was extensively flirted with by a sub-2-year-old boy in sexy workboots. (I commented on how cute his boots were and he wordlessly held his foot up so I could look at it better.)
So that was nice. I also informed Z that I want to have had children someday, so one of these years I'll probably flip out hormonally. He said he'd mark it on his calendar. I said he better not dare wait until then and then dump me, now that I've given notice. If he's going to dump me, do it before the meltdown, so I have time to find someone else before I enter Desperate Meltdown Woman Stage, because being Single and Desperately Melting Down is just so not cool. Which is why I had him pencil it in on his calendar.
We did both agree, however, that the first like twenty years of childraising are so totally unrewarding as to be nearly un-worthwhile, drawing from our own childhoods, and that both of us are actually repulsed by drooling larvae infants. So these are definitely issues I would have to address, but I still think what it amounts to is that I cannot see myself as an old woman on her deathbed looking back at the world and having no offspring in it. Come on! My unique brand of fuckery needs to be propagated. I can't slip into the hereafter and leave nothing to plague the world!!
But I digress.
And oh, they finally told me the resolution of The Ridiculous Incident.
"The others are all getting written up," HR Lady said, "but all the witnesses agreed that you didn't say anything, so you're not getting written up. But let me warn you-- you are remiss for not having reported the incident! It was harassing behavior and must be reported immediately!" I blinked at her like she was a crazy person. "Everyone takes things differently," she said, repeating a theme she'd used many times, "and so we have to be sensitive to these things."
"Yes," I said, "everyone does take things differently: I took the comment as being an utterly harmless and even amusing statement, and thus saw no need to report it."
That sort of took her aback. See, she has this thing where she goes into Stern Mode, and like, winds up and gets shrill and is all, "I am so fearsome!" and she was doing that, trying to find something, anything, to intimidate me about. She's been using this shrill threatening tone almost nonstop since the whole thing started, and I just can't take her seriously enough to be intimidated, but she is trying. But dude. If the primary foundation of your argument is that "people take things differently" and so the speaker's intention is utterly irrelevant to a discussion of sexual harassment, then you do not have a leg to stand on when someone turns that argument around and says that they took the comment a different way and thus saw no need to report the incident. You do not.
I got home and Poppy Z. Brite had posted something on a similar note, and I was a bit sorry she has comments disabled because I would've posted a "Preach on, sister! Er, brother!" Dude, we all perceive things differently, and that's fine and great and is what makes us human, but it is not only the over-sensitive that have the right to perceive things as they do and have that be taken seriously. WE ALL have the right to have our perceptions respected.
I am still thinking of filing a union grievance over the HR lady spreading gossip about the bartenders' income and poisoning the work environment against us.
Aw, shit, I have to go to work now and my hair isn't dry. Fiddlesticks.
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-19 10:26 pm (UTC)...although it is close.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-20 12:00 am (UTC)Surprise #1 - Your own children are amazingly cuter, better behaved, and smarter than other children.
Surprise #2 - Children don't have to be drooling, snotty, miserable blobs. With attentive parents they can be clean faced, smiling, and sweet.
Surprise #3 - Once you have one, you'll be glad of it. Assuming that you went into it at a time in your life when you can physically and financially afford it.
They ARE great. But just to be bitterly sarcastic...
Date: 2005-11-20 05:50 am (UTC)Surprise #5 - Your children will be friends with the less cute, poorly behaved, dumb kids that live nearby.
Surprise #6 - The years will pass quickly. It's the days that are endless. Particularly the bedtime hours, the wake-up hours, the meal-time hours, the chauffering them everywhere hours...
Re: They ARE great. But just to be bitterly sarcastic...
Date: 2005-11-20 02:14 pm (UTC)Yes. All true.