Your cocktail sir,





2003-09-24 - 3:25 p.m.

I really hate my job. Iím surprised at my depth of feeling actually. My previous job at least I could coast through. I knew the systems and the workings very intimately and had home access, so I could get away from it all, coming down from a stressful day in the cool confines of my apartment to work in a more relaxed, comfortable setting. It made me more productive, without the guilt of being logged into IM. But then, I only had to deal with sales people, some limited interaction with operations people and for the most part could do it all by email if I wanted to. Occasionally a phone call. Rarely a meeting. Aside from the status meetings and planning meetings and the interminable finance meetings. Those useluss time sinks I don't miss. But now, now I deal with the public. Mostly by phone and face to face. And usually only when they are riled up about things. I hate being the whipping boy. And I hate the sense of entitlement that Iím shown every day, as if I am the personal slave of the person talking to me. This lack of respect is tiring. As are the habitual troublemakers. Most of them elderly, who like to play the fixed income poor me I lived through the great depression and a world war and you donít know anything because you are young while they steal towels and fill up their shampoo bottles in the locker room. I canít stand the way they barge into my office to use the copy machine or make long distance phone calls to their children. And I especially dislike the lack respect. I am not a servant and I have broad powers and yet I am treated like dirt. I can see why they resent me with my cheerful demeaner and golden lcks, everything they are not. Even in their youth, during that great depression and that world war that defined them so. I want to scream at, abuse them, let them know how it really feels to deal with them. They are as hostile as the world they percieve around them and I am the chosen effigy to which they rally, walkers and canes raised in defiance as I,m lined up against the wall. The woman who called me in a fury because she was charged a late fee, her payment had mailed on the 16th and been cashed on the twentieth! Nevermind that it was due on the 11th and she shortpaid $40. In her mind I was the evil extiortionist, out to rob her blind. The worst was a decrepit harridan whose husband last year had shit in the pool and then broke his rib trying to get out. They had taken a leave of absence until the furuor had died down, and she was thinking of rejoining. When her statement arrived, she called and smugly informed me that I had made a mistake. Convincing her otherwisetook some doing, several phone calls, vgice mail, a rather ugly fax incident, until finally the GM interviened. At this point nothing was going to un entrench us from our positions. But a directivewas passed down from above. She would pay her $82 and I would forgive the late payment charge. Both of us winninu anh losing. I was ok with things until her $81.99 check arrived in the mail. I now spend much of my time on the toilet (as the smell of shit and the process of eliminating waste and flushing it down the totlet just seem to call her to mind) fantasizing about mugging her in the park one evening, she would no doubt identify me as black or hispanic' as that was one of her complaints about the club. I started out with thinking I would just stick a into her ribs but I imagine she lives in perpetual fear of just such an occurance as she's adopted the belt/bra dual use item to not only support her breasts and holh uy her pants, but also to form a protective fatty layer that would require a blade much more difficult to conceal. Her backfat protected her spine and she was always careful to walk out of the line of sight from any second story public area. I also would gleefully imagine scenarios involving her, a bus of pre-teens, a chevron truck driven by Star jones and a haples cigarette. Flung by me.

into the aftermath of those things meeting. Kaboom. There is a group of them. I think of them as the enemy. They are the ones that I must destroy. I understanh that these thoughts border on manic but I can't help them. They are just there. I imagine placing tripwires by the tennis courts while these elder ya-ya's meander through on thier wicked way to water aerobics, souring milk and causing wells togo dry in thier wake. Down they will go' thier brittle bones snapping like twigs. And that would be that' because pnumonia and death follow the broken elderly. I have even considered dubbing Nine Inch Nail's Closer over the middle of the Big Band workout tape. I figure it's worth at least a heart attack or to if Glenn Miller suddenly gave way to Trent Resner wanting to fuck them like animals. Or maybe I'll just pull the fire alarm and hope the stampede down the stairs gets a couple hips. I could even blame it on one of thier own, a hagrid creature who chain smokes unfililterd menthols despite threats and shouting matches with other members. I've beena member of this god damned club since they made it coed in 1973 and if I feel like a smoke here then I damn well am going to have it. Unfortunatley she pays her bill on time. But the second I can that membership is toast. Hopefully she'll run out of virgins or whatever the hell blood she bathes in to stave of the cancer and die. In fact, that's what I want for all of them. To move on. To harrass St. Peter about the admission policy to heaven these day's or more likely as yulers of thier own little hell circles where people like me go when they die because we all know the universe has a delicious sense of irony

previous - next

Zen and don't cry out loud - 2007-07-29

Zen and the stumbling rocks of fitness - 2007-07-19

- - 2007-07-11

Zen and fasting - 2007-06-20

Zen and hiccups - 2007-06-18

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