Breakfast or Tuesday afternoon

The other day, I spent half an hour rummaging among my craft supplies and tools, because the Lunéville hook would be either somewhere with the beads and embroidery stuff, or in that jar that contains mostly knitting needles, along with a few other elongated tools.

And then I stood in the middle of the kitchen, with this somewhat strange instrument, wondering what I was up to. No train of thoughts went through my head, nothing along the lines of If I intended to embroider, there would be tulle and frame. I just stood there, puzzled. Mom came to save me saying that there's TV to watch, I went around the corner towards my chair and there it was, my yellow throw with edge unravelled. I sat down, fixed the edging - machine done with a hook thingy but I don't have that tiny crochet hooks - and finally, after half a year of whining at the thread, I fixed it.

There it is, I'm barely able to decide what I want to eat and whether I want to eat or why the steaming hell I'm standing by the kitchen counter. Normal people would go and get a sick leave but the charm of a family business is that there're various emotions and other crap intertwined with work and as it happens, work of any sort gets usually more complicated than fixing a sandwich.

The other day, after a thousandth last drop, after I found and fixed further of the same mistakes caused by people ignoring my orders and instructions, I just started crying. I've been saying it round and round for at least half a year that I lack people skills and facing the horde of semi-literate morons, I'm just lost. Because, having the brains of three dunces doesn't mean that I'm able to fruitfully communicate with one. Especially if said dunce doesn't want to. So, they've been lying to me, ignoring assigned tasks, fucking things up and when I said something, the response was Oh, really, I wouldn't have thought so.

When BossDad returned from his skiing trip, and there have been phonecalls when I was screaming that I'm totally not going to put up against this so he was warned, I just said I'm leaving. That the guy was hired as an executive something so he can manage half a day in the reception with ten guests around. The guy wouldn't manage a chicken coop, by the way, I caught him writing to clients once, when it was too late, and had to made an idiot of myself explaining that the cook, against all instructions or permissions, had an urge to act, and that while his writing skills, especially when it comes to punctuation, are horrendous but he cooks reasonably well. Which was not very exact description, and after having seen the pots overflowing with strange sauces, I'll never eat out. I mean, nothing wrong with sauces but when he told me that sauces are the bestest and the more the better and everyone likes a nice thick sauce in large amount, om nom nom, I said 'xcuse me, I hate sauces of this sort you describe, sauce is a thing that comes by spoonfuls at max, and not necessary with everything. Then I ordered him to cook things that don't float in goop and was halfway ignored. Yeah, and he can't calculate a price of a meal, excellent if someone is to manage a kitchen. Semi-literate morons, I say.

So, since dear staff decided to ignore me, I guessed that the jerk of a receptionist won't be working on Saturday, I hung around, fixed his further fuckups, cried, threw some beer glasses and other things around, cried more, BossDad said to come in the morning so at 2 pm he appeared, I cried more, yelled at him that everyone should be shot in their knees, with particular attention to some people and that I want the fuck get out of there. After he asked who will be in the reception in the evening, I said that I don't care. I told The Guy - can't call him a chef as he can't cook beforehand so this was a bit of the show, bleeding pure adrenalin doesn't mean that I can't make a better point.


Haven't really talked to BossDad since. Actually, I've been avoiding him like plague. I'm probably acting silly but I just can't go on. I'm a sociophobe and I've had problems with strangers, phone calls, too many people in too little time... so no way I'm calling anyone I haven't encountered in person. Don't care who will do it, I won't.

I always fondly recall someone back at the Arts department claiming: Them managers. What an easy life full of fun. They drive their fat capitalist asses in Mercedeses and make phone calls all the time. Phew.


I don't know how to recognize nervous breakdown but I suspect that throwing things around and not caring is pretty close.

A loss

I lost a sweater. It was a new sweater I finished... well, I don't know when I finished it, I barely recognize Tuesday from my arse, to paraphrase Sergeant Colon. I only started wearing it despite those running stitches because a ganpi paper/silk combo is prone to ladders, because it was a light sweater.

I didn't leave the building since... it was Sunday or some other day long ago when I went to the next village to buy me a sausage. I think it was Sunday because the bus schedule was odd. Anyhow, since probably Sunday, I never got further than the employee parking lot to feed the cat. On Thursday I was doing the reception shift, oh my god, how I hate reception, and there were goods to put to storage and reasons to run around and I was cold and then I was warm so I was taking the sweater off, or it was getting in the way, and then it was not. It was a good sweater, with a nice drape.

I told the receptionist asshole that I'm missing a sweater and he said Okay, which probably meant Fuck you, but it's more likely that I've tossed it to a corner of my trash-covered office or my trash-covered room (not so trashed now, the maids did their job. And took all my hair brusings I kept putting aside for further spinning. I hate when people move my things, trash included. My trash, right?) or one of the storage rooms or... just anywhere.

I should probably go around the house and have a look here or there or I could tell the maids but that means I'd have to meet people and talk to them when I feel like, well, not talking to anyone, because everyone and everything irks me by their mere existence, and half of my underlings are ignorant semi-literate assholes which would be less of a problem if they did their job which requires things like reading and doing what they're told. Actually, I'm seriously worried that I'll snap and cause damages on health and property and the las tthing I'd need would be semi-literate asshole who's been driving me up the wall on a regular basis suing me over throwing a file at them.


No, I'm not very nice about my employees. Because, well, if I tell someone Do this thing please and they don't, and when I say it again, and then remind them that it should've been done yesterday and they're all offended that nobody ever told them, it gets somewhat annoying.If it happens ten times a day, and then over and over the next day, if I give it in written, first the paper gets lost, then it's pinned on the noticeboard but I'm denied is existence and when I point out that, excuse me, miss, but the instructions are here on your noticeboard, and since I put it in your hand, you had to pin it there, I get an Ooops, I forgot... I get somewhat irked. After a year of doing a job of four people while struggling with depression, I'm just fed up. And, to add insult to a long list of injuries, I can't find my damn sweater which is €80 worth of yarn.

Let the obnoxious drunks choke on their preferred booze.

I had five days sort of off. It included half a day shopping and half a day of inventorizing... and four days of mostly crying. On the 27th, I got back to work, also known as hellhole, prison, the damn hotel and other loving monikers, and rode on the adrenaline wave. The supplier fucked up my order of tableware that I ordered in advance in case there was an unplanned delay. Well, my fault, I should have planned not only an unplanned delay but also an unplanned unplanned delay. I ordered some sparkling wine and got ten crates of demi sec instead of brut so I needed to send someone to buy said brut because delivery not worky during the weekend. The wine guy promised some extra bottles for the hassle, which were snatched by said someone; I at least guess Mom will leave some for me. When they forgot to add some meat to yet another delivery, I called my assigned representative and told him that it's not my problem whether he beats or blackmails the people who prepare the stuff but could he please make sure that I get my stuff on time next time, thankyouverymuch. He started apologing profusely that these times around Giftmas are busy and messy, to which I gently replied that I'm sure he's sorry but I have other things to do so he can explain it later on. To cut the other story shorter, we have more guests than beds, as BossDad kept promising rooms left and right without bothering to tell the reception or me or someone who would actually make sure there're beds available. I sleep on a sofa, my little cousin and his two dogs sleep on the floor in my room, Boss's buddy got moved twice - at least he's a good sport - and there's a bunch of people who weren't promised actual beds but floor space for their sleeping bags. The Chef was fired two weeks ago, a replacement is here since the 27th and I already told him in no uncertain terms that while I appreciate his insight and experience regarding various stuff, I don't want to hear it now while I'm dealing with the backlog of paperwork left by Exchef, unexpected guests, beer cooling thingy breaking down, lack of champagne and a host of things my brain mercifully deleted meantime. At least Replacement Guy got it very soon and tries not to bother me. Today afternoon, I was already sick in several ways so I went to the wine cellar to cry and cool down, which usually takes about five minutes. At which point BossDad arrived, bringing turkeys and rum and my mom wanted something of extreme urgence such as a pencil or breath mints. When I have a full-blown meltdown, the worst thing to do is to ask What happened to you, Did something happen, Why are you crying when everything is going fine? etc. A while later, when I was trying to calm down by sorting out some papers, mom remarked: I think you should sort out the paperwork to hand it over. When you go like this when things go fine.... this job is not for you. Been telling them all the time. I know I can handle crises and manage chaos. I just can't stand too many people for too long, I can't stand this place in the woods, I can't stand winter here... I'm an organizer, not a person who would smile at the goddamn clients. I actually hate clients; I mean, they're my source of income and I don't hate every person each for some specific reason. It's just people gone over my critical mass, sorry folks, you're more than four-ish for longer than an afternoon. And now, they're drunk, loud and obnoxious. Regarding those who think that getting drunk is great fun, I have quite some disdain for each one in person. Now I'm going to bed onto the sofa. Stay tuned for more whiny rants next year or some other day.