It Was Fun While it Lasted

That’s right. Said ‘goodbye’ to another job yesterday.

We no longer require your services

You’re out of here

This is as far as we can go

Fuck off

off

It was bound to happen. In fact, last we met I had had an incident with some twat. I figured the ice was getting a bit thinner underfoot then.

I had brushed off the resume and started paying more attention to my daily job alerts. yes, I still had them coming. I know myself all too well.

I tried really hard not to ‘clap back’ as the kids say. It’s just too tempting.

First is the returning of work with all these cunty, sanctimonious comments. I’d had enough last time.

Then the facebook communication page. It’s fucking amazing to me how many 20 somethings suffer from PTSD.

“OMG! I can’t access the website I need and it triggered my PTSD!” Said one. Seriously. Never left Nebraska, but there it is. perhaps there was that incident with the cow in the cornfield.

I don’t mean to make light, because she may well have all kinds of trauma, but when they all piled all with their, ‘mee too’ bullshit, I was out.

I won’t go into the sordid details but of course, I was in the wrong. No matter.

It just happened yesterday but as soon as I got the email, I felt the cold clamp of fear and dread start tightening its grip.

It never leaves; it just hides in waiting. Waiting for us to trip and it can pounce.

I’m trying to remain optimistic, it’s early days, yet. But I think a bit of panic is needed to get the fire started.

I don’t think I have the wherewithal to visit that dark place again.

But I have felt things shifting in my universe and my solar plexus and so I’m not all that surprised or even upset.

The money aspect is the worst. That panic. Not again.

Just My Work Rant

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It’s been five months at my new job and I still have it! My average was always about three. I’m saved because I don’t share office space with them. Man, oh, man, would that suck!

Our office is Facebook. As most of my co-workers seem to be 20-40, they love to share on Facebook. Mostly, they love to brag, kiss-up or cry. 

Cry because someone was mean to them. And by mean, I mean corrected them. So desperate for us to pat them on the back and kiss their boo-boos. 

The bragging, as far as I can tell, is the need for more pats on the back for doing their job. ‘I just wrote an article!’ Jezuz wept. 

The kissing-up drives me nuts most of all. ‘Just a shout-out to the great quality control team, you’re all so wonderful… *insert ass-kissing noises*’  

I’ve been getting really pissed off with one of the QC people. She’s not on Facebook, or at least, not on the page. I imagine her as her worst. She sends my stiff back all the time with suggestions. 

Initially, I would do it but then I started to realize she was likely just trying to get her numbers up. There are monetary awards for highest producing on each team.

She also has no idea how to politely give a critique. I have, in fact, been considering filing a complaint about her. She has been downright rude and hurtful to me, and I’m not exactly thin-skinned. We hate her. 

Last Sunday, after a very slow week, she sent back one of my articles with one of her asshole suggestions. I returned the article with a comment, ‘No Thank You.’  Get. This. She fucking complained about me!

Well! That got me fired up. I thanked them for the information and then sent a blast right back, with all the crap she’s been pulling over the past few months. Ha! In your fat Iowa face! (I have no idea where she is from. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl with people who love her.) (Not the point)

All the comments we make are stored, so the content manager went through them and got back to me later. She actually apologized to me and said her and the head content guy would be addressing it, as her language was in fact, inappropriate. Ha! Take that, you insipid cow!

Usually, her comments would suggest she lives a very sheltered life, likely safe in the arms of Jesus. Good for her, but not on my work, you don’t. 

I wanted to go to their little Facebook ass-kissing party with a few home truths but refrained. It’s enough she’s probably crying int a pint of ice cream. Well, so what? She made me drink.

I make it a point to avoid the page and yes, I could just leave but it’s our communication system.   I took it off my newsfeed and only check it for updates, but it is mostly a sea of selfies, pictures of where they are writing from (brag) self-congratulations and crying because someone called their work shit. (I’ve seen some, it is)

I don’t usually last long reading the comments and posts. As soon as I see one of the aforementioned offenders, I’m out. Usually with an ‘Oh, Shut Up” or ‘Oh, Fuck Off, Already” Then I go back to my regularly scheduled life.

Overall, I love the job. They hired a bunch of new writers, perhaps expecting a lot more work, maybe clearing off some of the less productive ones.  I can’t go to the Facebook page and say what I really want, so I’ll do it here. As long as I can make a living without getting fired for telling some twat in Iowa to get fucked, we’re fine.

Write When You Find Work

Did I use this one already? No matter. It’s been well over 3 months since I started my online writing job and I still have it! Woot! Woot!

The job itself is somewhat unremarkable, other than it’s saved me, I like it and I can do it.  It’s blog writing for marketing purposes for other people. I churn it out, get paid every week and don’t get a byline. But that’s fine. All of it. Way fine. I don’t know if I’d want my name on most of it, as it’s mostly boring and verging on clickbait.

Working online is fabulous. I have actually been doing it for a few years now, but I worked for sites that charged exorbitant fees on top of shit wages. With this job, I make my rent and bills within a few days.

If I worked in an office or a physical space with these people, I wouldn’t have lasted a day. Maybe two days tops.

Our main way of communicating is through a page on Facebook. Also, most of the people who work here are 20 somethings. A bunch more of 30 somethings. These are the ones all over the Facebook page.

If they get an article rejected by the client, or even told they were less than perfect like mummy does, they rush to facebook crying about. I mean, they act as if they’d been shot. So hard done by. They are so fast to complain and then wait for all the tut-tutting and there-thering, it’s shockingly pathetic.

They love to complain and they also love to beg for applause for actually doing their job. I mean, for fuck sakes. I lost count how many times someone had to mention they took one of the harder or less interesting topics to write about. All the little twats clap and cheer. Bitch, Please. It’s. The. Job.

One of my favourites is they all rush on and ask about how to concentrate on the work. Well, stay off facebook might be a good start.

We have writers, topic makers and quality control people. The QC, as they are dubbed, can be right annoying. It’s the 20 years olds showing off because they have a diploma from agricultural college and live in a state where you can’t even buy alcohol.

They love to pick your shit apart and send it back. A few times they have been downright insulting. My natural instinct is to tell them to go fuck themselves, but I can’t lose the job. I do, however, snark back.

I’ve been heckled as a comic in some pretty seedy rooms, so having a chubby twat in middle America who was homeschooled tell me my article didn’t blow her skirt up, I’m not upset.

One woman told me to tame it down, and take the ‘flirt’ out. No thank you. It was about the sexiest shirts for me.

My less than frequent trips to the page is me shouting, ‘ Oh, Shut Up’ a lot.  I don’t comment or get involved. I did at first and was met with complete silence.

I get it, though. I do. We all have our lives to live and people shouldn’t hold theirs up to anyone else’s. There are a few people who work here like me, who live in a different country.

Unlike me, they are there spreading the good word of Jesus. My Jesus, or Hayzeus, drives a cab. Sells fruit.

Some post pictures of their scenery or view of where they are working, one put a picture of her lap and laptop from her plane seat. It’s meant to make other’s jealous.

They love the memes. I hate the fucking memes.

But, I am really relieved to have it. It seemed to swoop in at the last minute like a Prince Charming on a white horse.

I work when I want, I take time off. I sit on my crappy couch, sweating in my underpants, and it’s fabulous.

I’ve paid back everyone who helped me, (almost) and I still get giddy when I’m able to walk home with all my groceries.

groceryshopping

I will complain here and to my friends but refrain from commenting on facebook. I had to complain to the top guy about one of the quality control bitches who was well out of line and she’s no longer with us.

Some bitch told me the other day my writing was dry and boring. It was an article about how to save energy. I told her it was just my personality and I was surprised she didn’t call the article, ‘fat’, as well.

I also said I was under the impression the article was meant to be informative, not bring the reader to orgasm.

She didn’t send it back.

Write on!

 

 

 

 

Too Heavy

 

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I was walking home with groceries this morning, heavy ones and in my mind I said, ‘My life is too heavy’.  Then I tried really hard not to cry.

Truth is life has been very heavy lately. I’ll try not to make this all ‘sitting in the garden eating worms’ but sometimes a little self-mewling is in order. It’s financial, isn’t it. I’m out of money in a country I can’t legally work in and don’t speak the language and likely won’t learn much Spanish because statistically, being over forty greatly reduces that as a reality and as I’m over fifty I’d be happy to remember the grocery list I wrote ten minutes for I left for the store without it.

But it gets you down. Last month I had to borrow two hundred pesos from my only friend here, (Nobody likes me, everybody hates me… sing along if you know it) just to have water for the week. I actually went several weeks without cash, in the bank and on hand. I had spent the very last of it, the bits I’d been hoarding on cat food and litter. I also had to carry it home, which was brutal.

I’m looking online for work, really my only option, but it’s bits and pieces. I use several websites but recently had a falling out with one of them. I got offered a job, and the pay was good, very good, in fact. Not just for this website, but in general. The guy wanted to chat through Skype, but only instant messages, never laid eyes on him.

He came across as a bit of a prick but I persevered. I got the first assignment, finished and set it to him thought the website where he hired me. It was a job writing articles and for those of you who have done or are doing it now, it’s horrendous. Mostly, I want to punch my own spleen out. The job was up to five articles a day, finish it, do the next one.

I never heard from after  the first one and then the next day saw him on Skype and asked what was going on. He immediately started in on me about how I was way too late and he didn’t work like that and blah blah shut the fuck blah.

I pointed out I had sent the article within an hour of getting it the day before and if he would kindly stop swing his cock about and maybe put it back in his purse he would see said article in his account inbox.

He said we both had a bit of a misunderstanding (he) but we soldiered on. I did a few of more articles, some were fine, a few of them just a nightmare, but I got through them. I was sending them to him through Skype but also through his account on the actual site, and using their system of tracking my hours. The last one I sent wouldn’t go in to his account and when I checked it, it said it had been closed.

Super.

I contacted their ‘chat’ customer service do-ma-jiggy, to find out what’s going on. It’s at this point I’ll mention that;

a) I’ve had wretched service on this particular site before

b) I’m fucking mad

c) there is no alcohol in my house

I live in a third world, or developing country and customer service here is ghastly but still makes theirs seem like silver service.

This twat I’m talking to immediately started blaming me and telling me I was at fault and then things just got all white and hot and it spiraled in to several ‘fuck yous’ (mine) and then I got an OFFICIAL FIRST AND FINAL WARNING and I asked her to poke that up one of her smelly hairy holes as well and then they took the whole five dollars out of my account. I mean, really.

To top it off, because that’s not enough, they sent me an electronic invoice, just to show me the money I could presumably poke up one of my smelly holes.

I started to walk/run in the early mornings. I started a few months ago. It’s mostly really nice, somewhat quiet, not too much traffic, I see the ocean and other walkers/runners and beautiful scenery but also rats and dead animals and garbage and that is really hard to take.  Mostly the dead animals.

My body is getting lighter.  My life is getting heavier.

 

 

Can You See Me Now?

A few years back, when I was nearing the milestone of age Forty, I decided that the service industry just wasn’t cute any more. Plus, people are hateful, soul-sucking vermin who think the entire world revolves around them. The decision led me back to that old chestnut of, drum roll … Temp Work!

I signed on with one of the larger agencies in Toronto and fell back in to the anxiety of, ‘Would I work this week?’ ‘Will Kitty and I eat soon?’. Ah, temp work. Mostly at banks, the complete and utter distain directed at you from the staff, no one talks to you except the other temps, you become just a bit of background, stuffing envelopes or sorting out monthly statements or used cheques. The grunt work that’s clearly beneath them. Couple of days, maybe a week and off you go. Bliss.

After a few months of bouncing around I got a permanent placement at a bank. Not a service bank, but a Loans and Mortgages building. I was placed in the mail room/records management. The HUB of the entire building. Fourth floor! The heart of all eight floors!  This is where the mail was sorted and all the files of all the clients for the bank were stored.

The mail was delivered in the morning and all throughout the day, any number of people would email down to our office requesting certain flies. The email was retrieved by another temp, higher up than me as they got to sit down in the main room. This temp, with at least three doctorates and an unpronounceable name would print it off, highlight the bits I needed to know and then I would go pull the files and deliver them to whoever needed them using a large metal push cart. Once there, I would collect files that had been used and take them back and re-shelve them. Simple, no?

I started doing half a day only, starting at noon, which at about seven dollars an hour was laughable. It wasn’t a particularly difficult job, nor was it particularly exciting, but I was always moving about the bank, meeting people and not meeting people at the same time.

There always seemed to be a problem with the morning person, having a new one every other week. When I realised Morning Shift Number Three wasn’t cutting it, I stepped in. It seemed he would leave and disappear for long stretches, plus he had a bum leg which seemed to make it almost impossible for him to push a trolly full of heavy files. Bum leg, skinny, bony and apparently lazy as fuck. He never used to re-shelve the files, just leave them for me to do when I came in. That got boring really fast. The day his bum leg caused him to fall over, complete with full cart of files, I tattled.

I went to the supervisor and delicately broached the subject. I didn’t know her well, she was a lovely little not-quite Grandmotherly type with white hair and always put together nicely. She seemed to have a decent sense of humour and always smelled like flowers, cookies and cigarettes. She took the news well; we can’t have sensitive files spread all over the floor and intermingling, now can we? She started to search for a replacement and I tentatively asked if I could do the whole day, as I was struggling to make it on half a day. She agreed.

So, everything sailed along, I had a full day of work and the other staff were starting to see me and talk to me and everything seemed to be on an upswing. Until The Elevator Day!

Eight floors and all accessed by four elevators from a rather small lobby. The shifts were staggered, starting from eight until ten am, so there was always a lot of traffic. I had delivered a bunch of files to the ground floor and picked up a large amount to be taken back. When I came out of the first floor office in to the lobby there were a lot of people milling about, all getting stressed, shuffling about in their heavy winter coats. It seemed the elevators weren’t working. Many people started taking the stairs, although not the special princesses in their special princess shoes and their special princess attitudes. Men are like that.

Finally one or another elevator started to move and people pushed and shoved and crammed in the small space. I had a large cart full of sensitive files so I couldn’t just abandon it. After about twenty minutes a woman who had been waiting grabbed the front of the trolly and pulled it in the elevator. She could see I was stressing quite a bit and very near tears and really didn’t want to be there any longer, ( see comment above about my wrath of humans) and the relief I felt to finally be in was palpable. But as soon as I got in, everyone else starting cramming in and cart be damned, all these assholes in suits started to push the cart out of the elevator. Because they matter and my cart and I don’t.

I stood there looking at the spot I had just seconds ago been occupying and watched all of these boxy suits and blank faces fill up the elevator, no one looking at me or acknowledging what had just happened. Only the woman who had pulled me in in the first place gave a consolatory look. I was so surprised and not really surprised at all. I quickly went from stressing to relief and was now standing in front of a full elevator and surrounded by a bunch of assholes!

Just as the elevator doors slid closed I pushed my face close to the tightening gap and yelled, “Ya? Well, you can all go fuck yourselves”

When I finally got upstairs and settled back in to my routine, I was petrified about what the fallout was going to be. I had just gotten a full time job I didn’t completely despise and now I was to be fired. I’ve been fired for less, so telling a cage full of suits to cram it was worth it, in the long run.

I was just coming out of the elevator and I saw my supervisor just getting out of the other one next to me. I stopped her and said I need to tell her something. I wondered if I should tell her exactly what happened or soft-soap it a bit. I rely wanted her to hear it from me because was certain she would hear about it anyhow. I decide to just tell it like it was and be damned with the consequences.

She politely stood in front of me listening to my tale and when I was finished there was a moment of silence. I thought, well, this is it. Back to the job search.

Instead, she smirked, tried not to laugh and then bent over holding her waist and put her purse on the floor. She laughed for a full minute. It was a bit confusing at first. She managed to stand up and collect herself. She tried to tell me that that wasn’t something one should do, but then collapsed in laughter again.

We are still friends.

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