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Jul. 28th, 2003


DHS Update

What can I say...

So I went in to the DHS, because they didn't send me my final paycheck. Big surprise number one. I drive over to pick it up (Updates: Red's leaving, she found another receptionist position, and Furious D the Little Hispanic went to a bunch of interviews during the last couple of weeks) and the Financial Lady tells me that the check for the janitorial work I did, two weeks worth, I'm only getting paid $40 for.

Two weeks is half a month. A month of janitorial work is $100. I figured half of $100 was $50.

"But July is a five-week month," she tells me, "so the Big Boss told me to make the check for only $40, $20 a week."

*nods ruefully*

Yep, they're dicking me around for TEN BUCKS.


What can be said? (Other than I never have to deal with them again, thank all the gods of job karma...)


Jul. 24th, 2003



So, as I assumed would happen, I haven't been paid for my last week at the shithole.

It was SUPPOSED to be direct-deposited to my account. At least, that's what I was told. And with the company's office closed this week, (the warehouse is still open) there's no one for me to call, no one there if I go by to pick up the cheque.

Typical, really. Slip-shod, half-assed, goddam stupid idiots.

Jul. 13th, 2003


Just to make it official...

My last day at the dank heaving shithole was Friday. The Big Boss and the Boss' Daughter were both out of town, so the day passed quite smoothly without any serious incident. I got everything I wanted to get done accomplished, and left there convinced I could not have done a better job.

Monday I hit the streets and send my CV to a placement agency. Tuesday I have to bring my car into the shop. Wednesday... Final Fantasy 8, probably... Then Thursday Clippers and family are heading out on vacation, so I'm house-sitting for them... high speed internet, satellite tv, Age of Mythology... it'll be like living like a movie star!
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Jul. 10th, 2003


I finally figured it out.

The Boss' Daughter called me in for a pow-wow. She wanted to know why I was leaving. I told her that I felt the level of compensation and support was not equal to the level of responisiblity and stress I was under.

She felt she needed to tell me "the facts of life." That responsibility "only grows as we get older, get married, have kids, whatever." That I needed to find a way to "manage my stress." (I told her I was doing exactly that - by removing myself from the source of that stress.) That she and her father (get ready for this) couldn't understand why I was so miserable when EVERYONE ELSE WAS SO HAPPY working there.

I was stunned speechless. There isn't a person working there who doesn't envy my quitting.

Oh, and everyone working there is WAY over-paid. And she and her father spend hours upon hours working overtime to MAKE OUR LIVES EASIER. And she doesn't have the luxury of telling us we're all a bunch of "fucking jerks" to our faces, she has to keep it to herself.

*nods slowly*

Is it just me, or is she delusional?

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Jun. 4th, 2003


The Good the Bad and the Ugly

The Good:

So I'm at work today and I realize, hey, I'm speaking four languages here! Furious D speaks French and Spanish, Red speaks English, French and Russian, and everyone else speaks English and French. I'm saying things like Como esta? and Spaceba and thinking this is normal. So I'm kinda proud of that. *happy nods* There's something terribly Canadian about being able to say Thank You in multiple languages.

The Bad
So I'm at work today and I get asked for $2 by the Financial Lady. "What for?" I ask, reaching into my pocket. "Monthly coffee contribution," she answers. I stop reaching for the money. I stare at her. "I know," she says, nodding in sympathy.
This place has progressed beyond bad to ridiculous. I Officially Have to Laugh. Ha. Ha.

The Ugly
Correction to the previous post. It wasn't a slug I saw in the toilet bowl. I know what you're thinking, a slug, big deal, a little salt and it's gone. So just know I wouldn't have reacted so badly to a slug.
IT WAS A LEECH. *shudders violently*

Two things...

First: This is officially the worst job I've ever had. Worse than Winners, where I had to mop up kiddie puke and other human bodily fluids I won't go into. Why you ask? Yesterday I fould a slug *shudder* in the toilet *shudder* *blllllleeecccchhhhh*

So my good friend and ex-roommate came and took away her beautiful wooden dining set. Farewell, table and chairs, ye served me well. But it gave me a chance to talk to her about jobs etc, and she's going to see if she can't get me a job at the box factory where she used to work. Not a better job, but better money at least. And a friend of hers (and of mine from Winners) is going to try and get me a job at Royal Bank, which I have to admit is something of a dream of mine, despite it being outside my field, because at the very least, hey, no service charges. Ever. And I've found that working in a creative field makes me A) less creative personally and 2) defensive because it's my art dammit! There's a piece of ME in there! So working for a bank would be EXTREMELY GREAT. *enthusiastic Muppet nods*

Okay, second thing: No more focussing on the negative. I'm tired of it. Yes, my lot is pretty shitty right now but it will get better, it always does. And it's never so bad it can't get worse. I am great! I am mighty! I will survive! And thrive! So there, world!


May. 30th, 2003


I say, evolve, and let the chips fall where they may.

Something's come over me lately. It's been growing for a little while but I haven't been able to put it into words until now... I feel like a corner has been turned in my life. I feel... coalesced? Focussed? Distilled? Something like that. Standing up to the Boss's Daughter (henceforth The BD) was a turning point - I feel like I've realized my abilities and strengths and I'm not going to let anyone take that away from me any more.

Case in point: This morning in my email was a message from Monster about a possible job. I clicked the link and came to a position opening up for an Art Director. A month ago I would have skimmed the position, been scared off by the responsibility, and not applied. This morning I said "Bullshit" and applied - I'm motivated, enthusiastic, goal-oriented, efficient and determined, dammit! I can totally do this job. DAMMIT! GIVE ME THIS JOB!!

So there.

In the past month I've had lots of responsibility dumped on me - both with Lakeshore Light Opera as the President Elect, and in the Shipper job - in which, I feel, I was DENIED CRITICAL NEED TO KNOW INFORMATION. Specifically, I have to make sure EVERYONE in the company is doing their job right. Except the Old Guy in the Warehouse (henceforth Old G). Like, I have to make sure the Russian Receptionist (hereafter Red, not because I'm going McCarthy but because she's a redhead) is entering the hand-written orders into the computer accurately so that the orders are filled out right. Like, I have to make sure the Hispanic Guy (hereafter Furious D, because he's always mad, and the name amuses me) is filling out the orders right and not ignoring the hand-written orders because he's trusting Red to do her job. Like, I have to make sure our Finances Dept. isn't letting orders through to the Shipping Dept. before we make sure the client can actually pay. I'm not a shipper, dammit. I'm an Operations Manager, and THAT'S how it's going on my CV.

So I've had all this responsibility dumped on me after spending a lot of my life avoiding it whenever possible and accepting it whenever not. So maybe the Universe is telling me something. Hence the Art Director application.

Also so there.

In less intense life altering news, I bought a Wacom tablet. WOO HOO!! And all I had to do was mooch food from the rents for a month and sell off half my rpg stuff. Less five year old decrepid dying old one-button Mac mouse in my life makes Tal a happy man. ^_^

May. 29th, 2003


Who hired this crew?!

Lest you think I'm a whiny crybaby because I don't like getting my hands dirty in the mean ol' warehouse, let me just say I'm not the only one who hates it there. The Old Guy in the Warhouse goes around all day (no joke, ALL DAY) muttering to himself how he's "gettin' pretty fuckin' fed up" with the company, and the little Hispanic guy I work with (I'm not being racist or anything, he's like 5 foot nuthin') complains to me on an almost hourly basis how he hasn't had a raise in four years. I'm not even sure that's legal.

At lunch the other day the gang was complaining about management and I told them I didn't have the energy to hate management. Hate takes too much effort. The Russian Receptionist laughed and said, "Wait - soon you will find the energy."

This is your life - good to the last drop.

Today I was told that the Big Boss (he's like 350 lbs, and the head of the company, so...) was "unhappy" with how many mistakes were being made. I talked to his daughter about this and told them that as the new guy, I was going to make mistakes. And if they didn't like it, they could fire me. I was a little proud about that - I've never stood up to any sort of management figure before. This job may pay more than unemployment, but the level of stress in my life has gone from about a 4 on a 1-10 scale to about a 9. It's not worth that extra $1.34 an hour.

Okay, enough.

May. 28th, 2003


This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time...

I'm good at throwing skids.

I'm damn good at throwing skids. I realized this yesterday when I threw a skid with virtually no effort.

For those of you fortunate enough not to know, a skid (or pallet) is that wooden thing shipments come on, so the shipment can be easily moved around from truck to warehouse and back again, using something called a pallet jack or jigger. The lightest of them weighs a mere 15 lbs or so, while the heaviest can weigh almost 70 lbs.

So anyway, I lifted this medium heavy skid and tossed it with no effort, and realized, I HATE that I'm good at that. Does that make me elitist? That I dislike excelling at blue collar skills? I come from a blue collar family, and I'm kind of a big guy, so it shouldn't surprise me that I'm capable of excelling at the sort of manual labour my father's family has always done. But I still feel like I'm meant for more than this. And it doesn't help I keep having post-cognitive flashes to pre-cognitive dreams (oh yeah, I have lots of those, none of them any help - *yells to DreamLand* LOTTO NUMBERS TONIGHT PLEASE!!) I've had about this place and the people I meet on a regular basis, meaning I'm meant to be here at this moment... *sighs*

But thanks to supportive friends, this trying time is made all the easier, so thanks to everyone out there reading this and wishing me well. ^_^

May. 27th, 2003



I have it! Today the secrets of the Warehouse were made clear to me.

Today, we ran out of tape.

So I wandered around looking for packing tape, and finally had to borrow some from the warehouse next door. Because (and here it is, ready?) IF WE ORDER MORE THAN TWO CASES AT A TIME, THEY "JUST SIT THERE COLLECTING DUST."

*picks up jaw*

Because (hold on, this one's really good) we can "ONLY USE ONE ROLL OF TAPE AT A TIME." not, "we're only ALLOWED to use one roll of tape at a time" (which I wouldn't put past them) but since the tape guns (we have two, they're almost as old as I am - and both broken) only hold one roll of packing tape, there's no point in ordering more.

*shakes head*

Which explains why they won't order pens, since the box of pens would only sit in the supply cabinet collecting dust. I guess.

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