Mice et al.

The maintenance guy is so simple that it hurts but sometimes, he is one of the rare people who actually act reasonably.
Since the hotel cat was ran over by car (well, she might have suffered a heart attack in the curb, I didn't get the autopsy done and it was an old cat), there's nobody to deal with the rodents so we got a bit of mice infestation in the dry storage. The kitchen staff didn't say anything because they are too lazy to open their mouths and weren't it for the maintenance who told me about traps, baits and that mice prefer cheescake to bacon, I wouldn't have found out for a while because I don't check every nook and cranny that often.
I went to check because mice in food are no fun and the food safety inspectors would go ballistic if they happened to find the rodent turd which I found among packages leaking flour, oat flakes and what else so I went to do some yelling, to which the chef on duty said Oh, wee little mousies, isn't that cute and gave me hurt looks when I yelled more and ordered her to check everything NOW and whatever package is opened/broken but mouse-free will be put into a sturdy container. Which sorta happened but the mice still came and went. Maintenance guy said that one disappeared with the spring trap. (Rocky mouse, aparently.)
Two days later, I went to check the state of matters, found even more mouse dung, went to the kitchen and yelled more. The other shift gave me another series of hurt looks and chef said But I cleaned the place a while ago.
Yesterday, there was more of mouse dung and I just went ballistic and ordered the kitchen staff to remove everything from storage, check every package, yes, package, not crate, chase all mice, spiders and dirt away...

Maintenance found out that the anti-everything netting in the vent was not tightly set so he fixed it, did most of the shuffling and cleaning. However, the cooks' basic human rights were severely violated by all this totally unnecessary work because they needed to bend their precious backs, and who cares about excrements in their lunch. If I could press and preserve the moment when they gave me the look of kicked puppies, I would. Because, my cynical heart rejoices every time I remember it.

As the old story answers the question of how the mice eradication went: Two injured, three bruised and five seriously ridiculed

The maintenance artists are redoing my office. Moving the old furniture out was a bit of a task as it tended to disintegrate - which was the primary reason why I started this refurbishing adventure, I certainly do mind if the shelves threaten to collapse on me. I said that it's up to them to sort ouf which bits of the plywood and that sort of chipboard that's called compressed darkness around here could be useful for some shelving and to toss the rest. At which they pondered that the furniture looks quite good. After a few kilos of sawdust falling out of the solid-ish looking pieces, they caved. The IT guy came to check the wiring. After removing around five kilometres of cables that were not connecting anything, the place almost looked neat. But for the dirtiest carpet ever, which was ugly and dirt-coloured to start with.
It cost me around 130 euros to get a hardwearing carpet made most likely from recycled polyethylene bottles which is blue, pretty and will probably outlast the end of the world, cockroaches, Keith Richards and a very special cat that was recently rehomed from a shelter I know and whose name was Satan for several good reasons. Ikea post-giftmas sale provided the rest. The provisional workspace is truly Procrustean and I can't wait to get to an actual table. Coffee table with an orange crate (as used to hold oranges, it's actually mostly black, not that it mattered much) to lift my laptop to a reasonable working height is not the last cry in ergonomy and my back hints the same.

Jailtime coming to an end

Been saying it for quite a time that I'm not suited for the job. That, accidentally, I'm doing a job of 3 or 4 people. That it's not possible to do contradictory things, such as have the paperwork done the way it's required (takes at least 6 hours a day most days) and supervise people at the whole workplace all the time. That 100+ hour workweek is fine when it's one week but it's impossible on the long run (I'm not discussing that earning less than the gal with bucket and washrag is getting twice as much money for the regular 42,5 hours which include lunch break.)

Been saying it again and again for months. Been told that all I need is a bit of experience and patience, that I'm just overreacting, that it's not that bad.

Then, the last straw came. I was still being told to suck it up, it's not that bad because it can't be that bad, it needs a bit of experience and patience but in a less self-confident tone.

And, yesterday, I heard it said: Maybe you're just wrong person for the job.

The human mind is bizarre. So many people fasion themselves as logically and rationally thinking persons but when they're told things like Hey, I'm a sociophobic chickenshit with no people skills and I have papers from several generally recognized mental experts, unaffiliated among themselves, it's brushed away. I needed to scream hysterically that the gods better do a good thing and send ugly rashes to the faces of the filthy scum. Filthy scum being employees, clients and basically whoever work-related. Apparently, my series of eloquent and elaborate curses spiced up with a f-bomb here or there worked much better.

Powers that be admitted that my strengths lie elsewhere and agreed that things will be arranged otherwise, my last task being to instruct the newly hired filthy scum employees.


I served my time, release imminent. No idea what I will do later but that doesn't matter.

Ladies and gentlemen, hold your hats and prepare for the wild downhill ride.

Well.

This building needs yardarms, which, I am told, are those things on which mutineering and otherwise annoying sailors are hung for punishment. The yardarms can be used to hang sails, too; practical, I say.

The thing is, one of the employees was extremely rude to my mother. So rude that she admitted she hadn't ever heard some of the Klatchian and she had been teaching for 20+ years. She also refused to quote the diatribe. Said employee was just somewhat rude to me and then she stormed away saying that nobody will be telling her what to do (the memo that she was made the Director of the Universe must've missed me). Mom wanted me to fire her on the spot but the whole situation made me a trembling sobbing wreck.

Today, dad yelled at me, and I know he didn't mean it as badly as it sounded, but I feel shitty enough, well, he told me that I should finally learn to solve problems myself, that he's not going to do it for me and if I don't want to work, then I can just get out of here and there was some stomping and door banging (not me).

I really feel like wandering into the woods. Or jumping on the first long-distance bus that goes away from here, regardless of direction. Been telling BossParents that I'm not able to manage this place, that I don't have the capabilities and stuff, that I can't handle the daily contact with people. Just get over it, they say. Or It's not that bad, you need to tough it out. Or I wouldn't be able to live among these hillbillies without turning crazy, I don't understand how you manage.


The little nasty ssecret is that I'm not managing. I don't sleep, I eat badly, I keep constantly washing my hands because of all that hand shaking and other interaction with the damn bags of pathogens (also known as guests in the business) while I barely force myself to shower when I either stink or it itches.

And... it feels like my brain is going on an off uncontrollably. Or, rather, off and a little bit working, I keep forgetting things, I can't concentrate and I forget what's been said before the sentence is finished. (And then I'm crying and told to get over it. Hey, I'm getting over so many things that sometimes I can't take it any more.) And when it gets worse, I just stare blankly and struggle with every single line of a bill or something.

Life is out there

I had a four-day course which meant a business trip. To an actual city with paved sidewalks, trams, actual shops with things - hey, I bought a bottle of anti-dandruff shampoo on a whim, just because my head started to itch when I was passing by one of the many pharmacies. On Sunday I felt bad from the very morning. I finished my course, passed the test (killed only three people out of 40 or so) and then had a meltdown in public, in front of a bunch of strangers. I sat on the staircase, crouched and crying for no apparent reason... yesterday, I had a meltdown because I was going back to work, to that bunch of assholes less competent individuals to a place in the middle of nowhere. I pulled myself together somehow but I became painfully aware that the job from hell is just what it is. No way I can be a manager. I can't be managing people if I'm so scared or inhibited to yell at them or to tell them what to do, preferring to cover up for their mistakes and do what they should be doing because it brings less discomfort than actually telling someone that they messed up. On the other hand, carrying beer kegs is good for upper body strength.

Pig

A guy called. He asked whether we could lodge and feed a bunch of people for two days, I said Yes, sure, we have vacancies.

Then I got a long list of stuff to be served, including a roasted piglet, if possible.
I said Yeah, no biggie but for the pig, I have to ask my suppliers whether they'd be able to deliver it on time and I'll talk to the chef whether it's doable. I billed the advance payment and went to do my job, which is mainly organizing, yelling, headdesking and keeping sober despite the circumstances.

I asked the chef: Hey, would you be able to roast a whole pig?
He said: Yeah, sure, whatever, I'll manage somehow, I could get a pre-cooked pig from The Meatworks, it would be easier to deal with. And, party, you say, that will rock, can't wait for all the cooking, hooray.
I replied: Excellent, so the pig business is all yours, I'll provide the drinks and candy, right?
Chef responded with a big Yes and I went back to my usual worries.
On Sunday, Chef said Alright, this is fixed, that is organized and you get the pig. I remarked that he promised to get the pig, he mumblegrumbled something and said Oh, well, whatevs, get the pig.

I phoned my sales representative in Metro. I think he likes me, most of his customers need lots of boring things like flour and milk all the time while we the fancy hotel ask for exciting shit. He only gasped shortly when I ordered a pig and then promised to ask around whether we could get a pig on Tuesday.

I went back to my paperwork and my tired mind conjured a scene, in which the delivery driver unloads a crate of coffee, some beer, a few boxes of cookies and then hands me a piece of rope to whose other end a boar is tied, saying This is Louie and Lousie saying "Oink". I called again and said Please, I need the pig dead. Now, the Metro guy gasped longer, then laughed for a while and when he caught his breath, he asked Oh my god, what happened. Long time ago, he came to understand that things sometimes get pretty odd here, that I have damn good reasons to think three corners ahead. Eh... well..., for example. I was promised that the pig will be totally dead and gutted.

I called the Chef and told him that all is set, pig is ordered. Smoked or roasted, he asked.

- Nope, just raw.
- But I wanted it cooked.
- You asked me to get you a pig. You didn't provide any specs regarding its state so I made sure it's dead, right? I snarked. - It will take a long time to roast and it's complicated and it would be much easier if it were pre-cooked. Also, The Boss said that he once had a smoked pig here, why didn't he get a smoked pig, the Chef yelled at me.
- Dear, I groaned. The smoked pig you refer to, I happened to see it. It was a piglet-shaped ham. You know, because I explicitly warned you several times, that I'm no expert when it comes to meat. I can't prepare it, I don't know even theoretically how one deals with it, I don't even eat it that much and if so, then preferably thinly sliced. You wanted a pig, you have a pig, deal with it. (See, I'm being assertive at this point.)
- Mumblegrumble, but is the advance already paid, because, if they just order all that food and don't show up, we'll be left with a pig and The Boss said that unless the advance is paid, nothing should be bought, and, anyway, everything is your fault and the pig should have been pre-cooked because now someone will be roasting it for two days. - I'll deal with The Boss and you have a pig to deal with, riiiiight?

At this point, the Chef hung the phone. I hope he's offended indeed mortally so that I don't need to deal with him any more.

Later, the Metro guy called again that hey, cool, we'll deliver the pig tomorrow. Or on Friday, if it suits you better.
At this point, it was me who gasped. We have no such big fridge so I replied that while his diligence is laudable, I ordered the pig for Tuesday so would they please hang it in their walk-in hangar fridge.

The advance payment hasn't arrived yet. The group has been here quite a few times so I hope they would eventually show up... the pig business has been stressful enough already.

Gods laugh when one makes plans

I hoped this would be a neat semibusy week at work. Three events in a row, a few random guests, nothing much to fuck up.

The Universe thought differently.

It actually started on Friday. Dad didn't really want to throw a birthday party but various relatives urged him so long that he caved. Mom decided to invite the smarter and nicer folks a day earlier for a bit of friendly chitchat, which did happen indeed. I was in a shitty mood because I'm simply not a party person, the evening dragged on, I was tired so I went to bed, stared at the internet...
When I decided that it's time for Ambien and some sleep, the receptionist called that the other receptionist is sick or something, that the ambulance are loading her in the car. Alright, I said, I'll be there in a second. The other phone rung, mom started screaming that the idjit called ambulance saying she got mushroom poisoning and where are the mushrooms from etc. I know my shit so I said Frozen Mushroom mix, delivered by Whatever Ltd., one kilo packages, yellow bag with pics of mushrooms, acquired around a week ago, kept in the freezer, thankyouverymuch, I'll be there in a sec.
Before I found my jeans and further brain functions, problem was solved, the ambulance drove away and mom said that when the docs heard that it wasn't some stuff picked at the back door but storebought produce, they wanted to drop the gal off; mom however told them to take her away. The idiot sneaked outside through the lobby full of people, didn't say a word and if it weren't for a waitress walking her dog, I'd ask about her when she wouldn't have shown up for work. Because, you know, telling someone is a tough job.
There are two sorts of mushroom poisoning. In the first case, one gets violently sick and throws up everything and more, been there, done that, morale of the story: don't trust a mushrooming botanist.
The other sort of poisoning makes you yellow and you'll need a new liver.
Nothing in between, as the three M. D.s, one nurse and one pharmacist who were sitting in the lobby, having a good time, explained.

On Monday, the maintenance alerted me that the room the receptionist was using was locked from inside. As she supposed to be in hospital, it was suspected that her boyfriend sneaked in. She had already brought him to the house, he got kicked out, she whined that it's not fair, they want to be together etc, I said No damn way... and there we went again. I banged the door a few times with no response, decided to let the intruder have ten diplomatic minutes for getting out of there in a discreet manner, lather, rinse, repeat... and then I called the cops. I also phoned the receptionist, asked her, Do you have your keys with you, to which she replied a resolute Yes! and when I remarked that incidentally, someone is locked in her room from the inside, she started muttering that she'll fix it or some such.
The officers did their door banging and the guy finally deigned to open the door. I asked him to go away now, to which he replied that oh why, he just dropped by to pick his girlfriends' things and it's so mean to call the cops and what's wrong with staying there overnight. The police told him to grab his things and get lost and told me that they had seen much better acting jobs.
Later on, the receptionist came to pick her stuff, with boyfriend in tow, and they wanted to 'discuss a few things'. It took around half an hour, during which I was accused of being Meany Meanersson because there's no damage or loss incured when the guy stays here, and, well, the insurance wouldn't cover any damages or injuries he might have caused or suffered but nothing happened so it's all okay, there's nothing wrong in borrowing workplace keys to one's buddies when it's meant well, and, most important of all, they both want work and lodging or they'll go elsewhere, and why not lodge them when there's a plenty of rooms and that I betrayed their trust by calling the cops on the poor Mr. Entitled.
My serfs obviously had Christmas in October, heard me yelling twice in one day and that's good, they think I'm soft and malleable and it's good to have them a bit scared that the next dose of shrapnel may hit them.
Then, I wanted to go and grab a drink but I wasn't in the mood.

Next time: The pig story.
PSI: While I kept the 'bunch of idiots' tag for a certain set of classmates from long time ago, I'm reviving it because it's a damn useful descriptor.

Little white magicians

It was Nanny Ogg or one of the Ephebean philosophers who said that a jar of marmalade now is no biggie while a promise of a jar of marmalade somewhere beyond the horizon keeps people going on and on and on.

In my case, it's the botanical expedition in May. Long time to go yet and meantime I need to watch the goddamn cold white stuff falling and to deal with people.

My shrink kept prescribing anxiolytics, just in case, and sleeping pills, just in case. I guess that my internal system is set to a day which lasts 24 hours and five minutes because after some time, I have problem falling asleep and a bit of zolpidem not only knocks me off but causes silly dreams (which I probably don't dare to publish. On the other hand, half of my traffic goes from a discussion server where they've already been mentioned. Maybe one day).

The job is stressful, the bunch of idiots filthy underlings employees try how far my nerves will stretch, or maybe they're just dumber than a box of rock, who knows, who cares.

I bought another plant book, I knit and I keep nomming chemicals. I suspect that it's rather the placebo effect than anything else as I hear that good old benzodiazepins work the best but they're somewhat addictive. Well, I think that an addiction is just a mild discomfort compared to the feeling that blood and brain matter is gushing out of my ears after having to listen to some idiotic whine over and over.

I need chocolate. And booze.

I'm on a diet and I'm doing my best, I even had a nice bout of hypoglycemia the other day. But....


BossDad is hiring. The welding department of four was dissolved. Three were fired for general assholery, as I hear, and the fourth one is in hospital with throat cancer and won't be around for a while, poor guy.

So, BossDad got some resumés from various agencies and invited a bunch of people for some grilling. BossMom is the evil cop who hands out tests on grammar and general knowledge and such, BossDad is the bad cop and I'm probably the nicest one, mainly because I'm lazy and mean but not inherently evil. Or... whatevs.

Applicants took over my table in BossMom's office so I'm sitting in the hallway. It's no biggie but everyone entering or leaving is opening the slightly creaky door behind my back, BossDad is bringing the applicants in in somewhat loud and boisterous manner and I'm, after all, interviewing them. I have some rather urgent work to do, it requires concentration and I'm interrupted every ten minutes. So far, I have sorted out my mail, paid bills, wrote several lengthy and messy emails to people who are hopefully used to my idiosyncratic ways and bought a bottle of neroli on fleabay. Uh, and I have read not only a crapton but a whole shitload of stuff on everything2.com

The result of the day is that finally, we'll have a PR manager. No more damn fucking advertising for the poor innocent editors who are busy with just about anything else.

Now, I'm off to get something like a dinner and a bit of rest since there's an overnighter ahead. I need to do some actual work.