Yeah, I’m complaining

26 11 2009

So I got a temporary job at a digital media company. We get scanned pages of newspapers and magazines, capture the bits and label them appropriately, proof them, and they turn into epubs.  And I like the actual work, even though the pay is sad and my last paycheck hurt my feelings. But oh my God, it is run so badly.

First of all, this shift I worked tonight (on Thanksgiving) was so dumb, not even 3 hours. What a waste. Second, I watched a girl spend most of the 3 hours on FB and youtube, and when she DID deign to work, she did it wrong. I simply cannot fathom how a company can bleed money on such a bunch of fucking incompetents as they’ve hired. Because first they pay people to not work, and then when the stupids fuck it up, it takes time (and money) for other people to fix it. What a bunch of morons. If they fired the stupid people, they could pay the good ones a tiny bit more. IDIOTS!!!

AND, you know what? I was working from an error report last night and someone had typed in “insert haifin into line 3.” That’s how they spelled “hyphen.” If you can’t even spell a simple word, should you really be responsible for proofing something? I think not.

And the software is jacked up, the process is so wildly inefficient, it just boggles the mind. I can’t help it–when I’m told to proof something, I want it perfect. It’s how I am.

Tonight I kept getting a page in proofer that hadn’t been blocked, though it needed to be (into several articles). The first time I sent it back, I put a comment up saying it had to be blocked. The second time I got it, nothing had been changed. I sent it back again, with the same comment. The THIRD time, I ripped off my headphones and said “Okay guys, I’m sending back this page for the third time, could someone PLEASE block it?”

Inefficiency. I don’t understand how this company makes money or keeps clients. I should just start my own company, get someone like Casey to write me some programs, and steal all their clients. Because I’ve seen the final products and if I was a subscriber, I would ask for my damn money back. It’s laughable.

 

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It’s just so stupid

14 09 2009

Last night I’m playing with my cat and her new favorite string.  Suddenly, and I don’t think this is my fault, she runs over my foot.  This results in long gashes going across the tops of four toes.  This quite naturally hurts, so I start screaming and carrying on like a giant girl.

C, hearing the commotion, saunters on over.  I pick up my foot and wave it at her.  She says, “Oh, geez, she just scratched you.”

Of course, that’s when blood starts gooshing out of my foot. Hahaha, that’s what happens when you make light of my injuries!  She sprints to the bathroom and returns with a considerable wad of toilet paper which she then strategically smooshes around on my foot.  Thusly staunched (sort of), I announce that I’m going upstairs to stick my foot in the tub, pour some peroxide on my foot, and clean the cuts out.  She tells me that she has just finished putting Drano in the tub, but I can certainly hop up on the teeny wittle counter in the downstairs bathroom and put my foot in the sink.  For those of you without a visual, the counter pretty much is the sink, so what she’s actually suggesting is that I either: 1) do a weird combination ballet move/flamingo stance and clean my foot or 2) somehow stick my foot into the sink that my ass would be sitting in.  Neither of these options is sounding really attractive, and the blood that had been held at bay by a wad of Angel Soft is now threatening to end up on the carpet.  So I demand that she go into the kitchen and fetch the big pot.  Which, of course, turns into “What pot?” “The BIG pot!”  “The one you make pasta in?” “No, the OTHER big pot!”  “The new one?”  “NO, the one that would fit a foot!!”

Correct pot having been located, she fills it with water and somehow hits my foot because while I’m expecting her to, you know, put it on the floor, she’s holding it mid-air and raising it to meet my foot.  I swear, she defies all logic in my world.  The cool water feels lovely, and it’s really neat how little pink bubbles seem to be coming out of my toes.

She goes upstairs for supplies and comes back with the following: a roll of gauze, some Neosporin, handsoap, a giant pack of bandaids, and an Ace bandage. For real.  She’s nothing if not prepared.  She then attempts to wash my foot which means she’s attempting to not only touch my foot but she’s about to touch the things that hurt and that is not allowed.  Ask my mother how many times I locked myself in the bathroom with an injury as a child.  No one touches my scrapes, my splinters, and certainly not the bloody cuts that hurt.  So I snatch my foot away and, okay, yes, splash her in the face a little.  It isn’t on purpose so I don’t see why she gets all huffy.

Once I feel sufficiently de-germed, she pats me dry with a towel (after I object, of course, to the first towel because I claim it’s too “linty”).  And then I am gracious enough to let her put bandaids all over my foot.  I decline the gauze, tape, and Ace bandage, though it’s a sweet gesture.

And then, for the rest of the evening the cat stays near me and even sleeps next to my foot on the ottoman.  It’s a weird sort of protectiveness, even though she’s the one that did it.  C claims that the cat feels bad, but I know better.  I caught her sniffing the bandaids and trying to claw the back of my foot when she thought I wasn’t looking and I’m keeping an eye on her.





It’s always something

12 09 2009

Well, Austin finally made good on the rain. And I was enjoying it until . . .

So I’m cooking, watching Dead Like Me, looking forward to the party. It’s storming. And eventually the rain noises sound a little louder, a little closer, a little inside.  So I start hunting, searching for the source of that dripping noise.

I find it on the stairs. The ceiling in my stairwell is leaking, which means there’s a leak in the attic-ish area and dammit. I grab a Tupperware and stick it on the stairs to catch the water. I call the apartment office.

Man: Thank you for calling —–. How can I help you?
Me: Hi, are there any maintenance people around today? My ceiling is leaking.
Man: Yeah, it’s raining really hard.
Me: . . . That’s right. It is. And that’s why there is a leak in my ceiling?
Man: We’ve gotten a lot of calls today about this, actually.
Me: Okay.
Man: Oh, we can’t actually do anything about it, not until it dries out.
Me: Uh . . . huh.  So do you have a list of all these people that have called? Can you put my apartment number on it?
Man: Oh, no.  Why don’t you just call back on Monday? We’ll take care of it then. Thanks for calling!

And then he hung up on me. I hate this apartment.





Nitwits and donuts

6 04 2008

C and I went driving around tonight.  We occasionally do that, just go driving/exploring in the dead of night with the stereo turned up and smoking too many cigarettes.  We also like to drive too fast, but that’s another story.  At the end of the 1 1/2 hour-long drive that included going over a bridge by the Mansfield Dam and ending up in a town called Lakeway, we decided to hit up the friendly Krispy Kreme drive-through for some treats.

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I did tons of stupid things

21 03 2008

This is to make up for the blog I recently posted about my mother.  Granted, she’s odd, but I have no room to talk.  I’m not only clumsy, but kind of dim sometimes.

Okay, when I was about 8 years old, my mother was struggling to put my hair into a bun for a ballet recital.  It took lots of hairpins and hairspray.  So much hairspray that I had to stand there with my eyes closed while she kept whirling that damned can around my head.  I started coughing and she said “Run.”  So I did, out of the bathroom and straight into a wall.  Because I didn’t bother to open my eyes.

My defense: She didn’t tell me to open my eyes.  Momma gave me an order and I followed it.  She should have been more explicit.

Mom’s thoughts following this incident?  According to her, she just sat there, shaking her head and thinking “That’s my gifted child.”