But by “unemployed” I don’t mean not working. Far from it, actually. I think I am working harder (not necessarily smarter) without a job than most people do with.
This past week, I felt like Flo from “Alice.” Remember that show?
I’ve been filling in at a little café here called The Marinated Mushroom, which is now owned by a really awesome lady and her son, who are both fabulous cooks.
They haven’t had as much luck with employees as they have recipes, and just over a week ago Lia called me in a frantic state, saying the “Betty Boop” (her description) girl she’d given multiple chances finally imploded and she needed a fill in.
Enter Flo. I’ve washed so many dishes this past eight days or so it’s scary. And kiss my grits, I think my hands have aged about a month for each day I’ve been there.
But the ownership is awesome, the food is fabulous and the clientele is really fantastic.
There have been no other job possibilities save for one interview this week. I liked the opportunity – not my field but within the realm of my skills and I involved helping people – but I haven’t head back.
So that’s the update there; I’m tired of dwelling on unemployment so I’m changing the subject.
The new subject: someone else’s former employment and former boss.
My mom retired a year ago last July. She’s only 66, and she wanted to work longer several years ago, a woman got placed above her department as the second in command. The command guy is great, from what I hear, but this woman is referred to as “The Bitch,” and not just by my mother.
But the stories I’ve heard. Man, they go on and on. The little department the woman controls (the head guy kind of hopes she’ll fade away is the picture I got) is still encumbered by rules the rest of the company doesn’t have to obey, such as not a second over 45 minutes or whatever for lunch and basically all this stuff.
Essentially, The Bitch is, as I’ve been told, full of shit.
This has only been theorized, of course, by lowly “clerks” who operate under the goddess herself, but those multiple “clerks” (the quote marks are an inside joke – TB recently introduced a staff member with a four-year degree as a “a clerk in the office.” Freaking insulting.) have substantiated the fact that she is full of shit.
Until recently, this was the only corroboration offered. Not that I disbelieve my mother or the other shall-remain-anonymous people who’ve also stated such, but hey, as a former AP person, I realize that’s a bit one-sided. You have to get independent verification.
Well.
For some reason that wasn’t explained to me, the shrinking department (at least one person has up and quit on TB because he was tired of her shit) has taken up some health offer and is working out together at some gym.
One morning, the “clerk” overheard a conversation with the personal trainer and TB. I’ve heard multiple accounts of the story, and from what it sounds like, it went something like this:
(Note: I am told the personal trainer speaks in short sentences and sort of punctuates her speech with a bobbing of her head, so try to picture that.)
The scene: at the gym. I don’t really know (or perhaps I do and just shouldn’t put out there publicly) the events that precluded this. I think it had something to do with working out and not losing justifiable weight.
PT: How many times do you go to the bathroom?
TB: Oh, I drink lots of water every day! I must go five, six times!
PT: No, I mean how many times do you GO to the bathroom? (Remember to punctuate and bob your head. It’s better that way)
TB: What? Five or six times. I drink lots of water because it’s healthy.
PT: No, no, no! I mean, how many times do you GO. Bowel movement! (Bob head)
TB: (Obviously thrown): Um, oh. … Once a week. … I think.
PT: Oh! That is why. You are full of it. (Bob, bob)
TB: (Incoherent stammering, flushed cheeks)
PT: Yes! At least three pounds backed up! (Bob, bob)
So there you have it. Independent verification that The Bitch is indeed, full of shit. With an estimate of how much.
Now, doesn't that just make you hungry? I can show you to a cafe with fantastic food.
Please tip your waitress generously. (And if you don't, kiss my grits.)
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