Hey Mr. Driver Man, Don't Be Slow

I blame the cat for any typos that may ensue, because he doesn't ever want to sit on my lap unless I need the wireless keyboard in the exact same spot. But he's so cute, and fuzzy...I just can't bear to kick him off my lap and watch him stalk away, all insulted and shit. He has two of his legs and his face on the keys. I think I need a third arm.

***

It was a weird day.

I have a new manager. Again. But that came toward the end of the day and wasn't that weird, just a little bit. How I found out was weirder, but let's get chronological.

I woke up early again to face the walk to the bus stop, but on the way upstairs I ran into PRB's Punk Rock Mom, who drove me downstreet.

While I was waiting for my bus, a man in a silver SUV with a baby in the backseat asked me repeatedly to let him drive me to work (it was just barely misting and not really cold). When I politely demurred, he pointed at the child seat and said, "I have a baby" like "a baby" meant "a certificate of not-a-creepitude" and I should be ashamed.

Telling this to CDHSarah on the way home from work, she was incredulous and I pointed out how much better it would have been if I had said, "Yeah, but you're still a stranger." Hellloooooooooooooooo.

And then I felt bad because there was the off chance that the guy just felt bad for me in the mist and the cold, with my headwrap and backpack, waiting for the bus, and wanted to do something nice. It's kind of sad, because the Artist and I have been known to pick up hitchhikers -- but I don't do it when I'm alone because you just never know. The difference in freakytude, I think, is that hitchhikers are soliciting a ride, or at least obviously don't have one, while I was standing next to a bus stop sign in a street-facing grocery store parking lot. But they tell you to trust your instincts, and this just felt hinky, and it's been weirding me out all day. It also set the theme for my morning.

So I got on the bus, with the usual really-awkward bus stop issues, got to the mall terminus, walked my two mile walk, got my biscuit, got logged into the phone, and realized that God had declared it Creepy Perversion Fat Tuesday.

I work for the Network of Selling. It has its advantages and disadvantages. One of the latter is the fact that the number that connects you to me is broadcast on cable, all day. This brings about a.) prank calls (and when did an excellent prank call become "hey, let's call the NoS and call the lady a bitch!") and the far, far worse b.)....Dirty Old Dudes.

**note: the cat has tired of me and all the gross mistakes from here on in are mine**

You don't usually get the DoDs on first shift. Unless, of course, you are selling exercise equipment.

I literally hung up on more perverts during the first hour -- heavy breathers, mumblers, and one guy who made me look up about ten things before asking me if the women on air were wearing underwear -- than I made sales. It kind of spoiled my nice and happy phone aura all day. I was getting snippy -- nothing worthy of getting fired, just snippy -- where I usually just mock.

Maybe the old perverts have to get a lot of perverting done today because they're Catholic and giving up perving for Lent. We can hope.

Also, I hate it when I get my last break an hour and a half after lunch, because I start getting antsy before I leave, and today I did an extra hour of overtime so I was really freakin' antsy by the time I hit the road. And I hate it when the set guys put spare set pieces in front of our bay where we can't see the TVs -- not that I usually care because I have a book, but when I can't even see the show being broadcast, it puts me at a disadvantage. Plus, Law & Order was on. (Does it piss anybody else off that the morning L&O eps are the SAME EPS from the night before? Dammit, it's not like they're going to run out.)

About half an hour before I left out, I checked my email; it was a daily team report from Melissa with the team members in the TO field and me in the CC field.

At the top it said YOU ARE NOT GETTING PAID BASED ON THESE NUMBERS.

I had a moment of panic-flight where I thought I had been caught out logging out for breaks (I'm just supposed to idle, but that doesn't always happen) and this was a list of the suspended folks with my name added on. But it was just a daily report -- conversion, add-ons, and the actual calls vs sales numbers with which the conversion rate is calculated. Idle time and logout times weren't even in there. The disclaimer was there because our commissions are based on shipped items and the MTD numbers take all sales into account.

This confused me a lot more because, while I've been talking to Melissa (who sits at the top of my row) since I came back, William had told me he was my manager my first day back on the floor, gone out of his way to introduce himself and everything, and the oddness was just compounded by the fact that I wasn't in her distro, but separately CCed.

I got her number and called her and asked about it. She was all chipper as usual, chirping, "You're on my team!"

The only thing I could think to say was "Since when?"
(It occured to me after this came out of my mouth that it was probably not the most diplomatic question ever, but I was very, very confused.)
"Since I got promoted!"
"Oh...well, William told me two weeks ago he was my new manager, but...OK, cool!"
"Really?"
"Uh huh, and I'm on his distro and his MTD lists. I even sent him my call-in forms this morning."
"I'll have to talk to him about that. But you're on my team!"
"Cool, then. Sorry! I was just kind of...confused...."

God, I hope she doesn't hate me forever because of that. We kidded about it later, so I assume not. (She had come out and asked me about my time sheet on Saturday right before I left, which I thought at the time was weird, but William wasn't there and those have to get done over the weekend, so I had just let it go. She seemed to think it was funny.)

I still am kind of confused. I had to go by William's desk at the top of the other bay on my way out, and he told me that they had switched me when I went back to full time, because I was working six hours in first shift and had to have a first shift manager. That made more sense. I just wish he had told me that, oh, this morning, instead of letting me put my foot in my mouth.

Speaking of managers, and work, I went by and saw Pat today, who was my manager from hire until my last medical leave, and she said she'd send an email pumping me up for the internal hire I'm gunning for, so W00T! for Pat. Pat is the bomb-diggity. I felt kind of weird asking her about it since she isn't my manager and technically hasn't managed me in six months, but she managed me for my first year and a half and neither of the other two have worked with me for any significant period of time, so it seemed right to ask the person who had done all my evaluations and put me in for raises and seen all those perfect QA scores marching across the board before I got sick. Let's continue to cross appendages, though, OK?

I just called a lady old enough to be my granny the "bomb-diggity." I feel kind of dirty.

***

Design School Homie (who, for the curious, actually graduated from design school a few years ago) and I had a seriously divisive conversation this evening via cell phone while she was waiting in line at the cheap gas station.

For the record, this is a reconstruction.

"What's up, dude?"
"Not much, just got the Neon a tuneup and now it's time to go to yoga."
"What's The Fisherman's phone number?"
"My phone number. He doesn't have a cell phone."
"I meant at the house."
"He's not there, he's with my dad at a trout fishing meeting. Why?"
(do not ask about the trout fishing meeting, I am NOT going there.)
"You're going to the gym and I thought I'd see if he wanted to take me to go get something to eat if I bought him a beer. CDHSarah had to rush because she goes back to work tonight so I didn't pick up Subway when she drove me home."
"Oh. That sucks."
"Yeah. I can't walk to the Subway either, because there's no shoulder at all crossing the bridge and I would totally get hit by a car. And I can't walk to O'Charleys because to eat there I'd need to go to the ATM, which is just too far...like four extra miles."
"Do you have anything at the house?"
"Yeah, but nothing I really want -- I haven't gone to the store because of the car, so all there is that doesn't require milk is hot dogs, no buns, or chicken noodle soup."
"Noodle soup is good!"
"Yeah, but I don't want it. I don't even have any cheese."
"Did you say 'cheese' ?"
"Yeah."
"Cheese?"
"Yeah?"
"You put cheese in chicken noodle soup?"
"Hell yeah, dude! Just, like, a slice, and then you melt it in the microwave, or sometimes I put in pepper jack..."
"That is the grossest thing I have ever heard and if I ever see you actually do it I will hunt you down."
"What?"
"Cheese?"
"Yeah! My whole family eats it that way! I mean, cheese, chicken, noodles..."
"I don't know, dude. I mean, it's not THAT gross, but it's definitely suspect."

Then we went on to talk about the argument I got into with my mom about socialized medicine and Jesus. (Again, don't ask. That's just too painful and freaky to go over again, because even thinking about it makes me want to beat my head into a wall.) And then she went to yoga.

***

What I'm Reading

I just finished Still Life and go to Babel Tower as soon as I get done with this and go to bed. This is the only novel in the Frederica Potter books I've read multiple times. I remember being confused at how much A.S. Byatt seemed to take for granted about her character histories when I read it the first 5 times in the hospital, so probably now I'll grok more than I grokked before.

If I decide, as seems likely, to spend some time marinating in the bath before going to bed to nurture my poor, abused leg muscles with their hurties, I will probably re-read the fifth Harry Potter instead, because I can't hold a hardback in one hand while soaking in hot water without courting disaster. I'm going to have to start getting hardbacks of the rest of the Potter books though, because The Virgin In The Garden is in two pieces.

What I'm Hearing

I'm listening to Steven Wright at the Artist's recommendation and enjoying it.

What I'm Doing

Dr. Eddie, who is a BASTARD, just called from Florida to tell me about his new apartment and his job and the fact that it feels like a Tennessee summer down there, and how he lives across Tampa Bay now. I love you Dr. Eddie! I want to come stay at your crappy studio apartment and hang out with the cute Brooklynite you work with! WAAAAAH!