17 June, 2011

It's Friday: Let's Piss Off Georgie!

Fucking A, I'm running on fumes lately, my little illiterati. It's what happens when the adventures are slow to come to you and you spend ample amounts of time juggling trying to sit down outside at the patio table with a few beers - 80°F+ temps be damned so long as you get away from the mouthbreathing malcontents inside - and realizing more and more each day how completely fucking bonkers your spoiled brat coworker is. You see, I like to think that over the past couple of years, I've done a fairly decent job of keeping Georgie's more perplexing peculiarities out of the public discourse. Some of those peculiarities were outright infuriating to deal with but, while I had a soap box here, I haven't posted anything about our argumentative nature with each other for two, maybe two and half years. Not with any amount of seriousness anyhow.
Now?
Fuck it.
She's a spoiled fucking brat.
I'm going to carefully detail why, for the first time in the five years that I've known her, I'm breaking out the name calling.
Firstly, in alphabetical order of the things she's called me repeatedly, there's "asshole", "bully", "drama queen", and - this one's my personal favorite - "ignorant farm boy". Considering those big four, I think she gets off lightly with "spoiled brat".
"Asshole" and "bully" came in tandem when I told her that pounding on my door like the fucking riot squad when I'm asleep is rude and an invasion of my privacy.
"Drama queen" is a personal favorite of hers to sling around because anytime I show emotion of any sort, I'm obviously being melodramatic.
"Ignorant farm boy" was the one that stung the most and I probably should have popped her right in the mouth for that one.
Secondly, the conditions under which I applied the title of "spoiled brat".
She calls into the office and tells me she needs to take half a week off. I groan a little because, you know, the whole part about us being a skeleton crew, but I ask her what the dates are that she needs off.
Because no conversation with Georgie is complete without her going "um-um" over and over again while she drags everything out to twenty times longer than what it needs to be and then sprinkled somehow with Mormons, I tell her, bluntly, to speed it up. I'm at work. She should know this. She called me on the work phone.
So, what could've been one phone conversation turned into four because she can't just say what she needs. Further, she insists that she's trying to find out what I need. I tell that if the family function she needs to attend occurs on particular dates, then what I need isn't very well going to change anything.
So please. Just tell me the dates you need and you can have them off.
Nope. She's not just going to pick the damned dates.
I tell her, we work as a part of the travel industry. We repeat it until we're blue in the face sometimes: We have a strict no refund policy blah blah blah so you need to have definite plans blah blah blah.
She doesn't want to pick the dates. I'm telling her to just pick the dates and she will have the time off. That easy. Just pick the fucking dates. She doesn't want to because she doesn't want to fuck me over.
I remind her that we're a three person crew and that when one person takes off for an extended period of time, that inherently fucks the other two people over; there's no way around it. It happens. Now pick the fucking dates so I know when I'm working doubles.
That's when Georgie decides to pull the New Steve card. She wants to know why New Steve can't work those dates. I remind her that he can't work on Fridays or Saturdays because that's Shabbos. I remind her that he has also consistently fucked up the books since he started working here and that he can't fold the linens worth a shit either. No. I'm taking the doubles. I'd rather have things run smoothly and have to work four doubles in a row than have New Steve buttfuck my office.
Georgie tells me not to be a martyr. I tell her I'm not being a martyr. I'm trying to run things now just pick the dates.
The dates that you want will be guaranteed off the moment you give them to me.
She decides that instead of giving me the dates she wants to tap dance some more instead.
I finally tell her: You have to be an adult and make a decision.
She doesn't like this.
She comes into work that day and gives me the silent treatment. Me? I'm trying to not hold a grudge but I can tell she's going to be pissy so I just leave her alone.
THAT WAS PART ONE
CLICK HERE TO TAKE A KITTEN BREAK
HERE COMES PART FUCKING TWO
I rode downtown to pay some bills. As I was leaving the bank, Jimmie called me to tell that Charlie Tuna had been found dead that morning. It was a bit of a shock and I didn't really have a whole lot of time to process it. I was downtown on a bike ferchrisake. It was a bit daunting.
I told Jimmie I would call him back in a few minutes after I got home. I stopped at the liquor store on the way home and stocked up on Guinness.
I got back here and I told Georgie what had happened.
No response.
I then went in to greater detail.
Without pausing or even so much as looking away from whichever incarnation of Law & Order she was watching this time, she simply said, "That's too bad."
Couldn't even pause the video.
Couldn't ask me who Charlie Tuna was.
Couldn't put aside a quibble from earlier in the day to at least recognize that, hey, you know, someone was fucking dead.
That maybe being mad at me for giving her the time off she requested (I know, right?) was probably rude at best but, let's be realistic, was actually incredibly, heartlessly insulting at the moment.
After a lengthy phone conversation with Jimmie, I proceeded to swat away the lifers out back (a small group of know-it-alls who, indeed, know it all, it's just that they skipped past the part about how to get a job) who wanted to take me to the bar. And, yes, I got a little drunk.
I don't remember how it started, but Charlie after six cans of Guinness and Georgie after six hours of being needlessly spiteful should not converse with each other. Highlights from the tongue lashing I proceeded to give her include the gems:
  1. "So your bruised and fragile ego trumps my dead friend!?"
  2. "Drama queen? Again? Excuse me for acting a bit emotionally after finding out a friend died!"
  3. "Yeah, go run and tell all your friends what an asshole I am for giving you the time off you requested."
  4. And eventually, "You're a spoiled. Fucking. Brat."
After that night, I started ignoring the shit out of her. She'd come in to work and I'd give her the basics of what was happening for the day, making sure to keep things work related, and then I'd leave. Because fuck her.
Seriously.
Right in the face.
And after a couple days, she asks, "Still giving me the silent treatment?"
I told her that she had x number of check ins scheduled and no linens to wash. Work related. Out the door. Because fuck her.
And I've been keeping it like that.
So, Georgie, there it is. You are now celebrated in the hallowed halls of SD&A on our holiest of days, Friday.
For the time you were complaining about how broke and starving you were and I bought you groceries and you complained about what I bought you, go fuck yourself.
For the time you clogged the sink at work with your vomit and left the mess for me to clean up, go fuck yourself.
For the number of times I lent you money to pay your phone bill and told you that you could wait to pay me back when you could afford to pay me back, go fuck yourself.
For the colorful names you've given me over the years that I took in stride, even though that's some straight Angie Doom shit, go fuck yourself.
For the fact that, yeah, I know you didn't pay rent at the carriage house for close to eight damned months, go fuck yourself.
And for the sheer, unmitigated gall of placing your grudge against me (for giving you the time off you asked for) before maybe showing some sort of human sympathy toward someone who just lost a friend ferfucksake, go fuck yourself.

Remember: You can only talk shit about the ignorant farm boy with the blog for so long before he finally snaps.

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