Another thing I just realized

5104389f26c12.image_.jpgMy kid’s school is cancelled tomorrow– not because of the weather, which is supposed to be absolutely outstanding, but because nearly 40% of the students in some grade levels and a not-inconsiderable number of teachers and subs have been sick lately.  The email from the principal named no less than four different diseases that had been running rampant in the building lately, and apparently the janitorial staff will be boiling the building tomorrow.

It’s probably good that this happened, because the email also made reference to the “four-day weekend” that the kids were about to have, which made both my wife and I realize that he actually does have Monday off, which neither of us had really realized because we don’t have any idea how the hell to check a school calendar.

So here’s the cool part: I started the Current Occupation in June, right?  And it’s mid-February now, as insane as that might feel.  During all that time I have not missed a single day of work due to illness.  I’ve come home and died a couple of times, and had some less-than-fantastic days, but I haven’t really been sick in months.  And that’s after fifteen years of missing, usually, around a day a month every single year I was teaching.  I was rarely if ever able to carry sick days across from one year to the next and had to dip into the sick bank twice.  And not one illness worth any serious consideration since June, despite constant contact with the public throughout that time.

Add that to the pile of reasons I don’t miss teaching, I guess.

In which I need my knees broken

67788272.jpgSo I just found out this is going to be my schedule in the latter part of March:

Saturday, March 18: Work from 9-8
Sunday, March 19: Work from 12-6
Monday, March 20: Board plane to Denver– which, to make sure we’re clear, is not where my wife or my son live.  Upon leaving plane, attend sales meetings.
Tuesday, March 21-Thursday, March 23:  Lots and lots of sales meetings.  Probably involving some sort of roleplaying, with my days and evenings full of the sort of alpha males who might attend these sorts of things.  I don’t drink and will have nothing in common with any of these people and will probably be having to share a hotel room with someone.
Friday, March 24: Attend morning sales meetings and then fly back home.
Saturday, March 25: Work from 9-8
Sunday, March 26: Work from 12-6.  I have been informed that I will receive my “average daily pay” for the days I’m in Denver, and that if I manage to exceed my average sales for an entire week over the 25th and 26th I will receive a bonus of… wait for it… fifty dollars!
Monday, March 27: Work from 9-8
Tuesday, March 28: Work from 9-8
Wednesday, March 29: Work from 9-2:30.

And then come home and die.

I’m going to need someone to badly injure me on the 19th.  Anybody wanna get in on that? Is there a line already?

On things left unsaid

Drifting off to sleep last night, at an hour most reasonable humans wouldn’t even be thinking about being in bed yet, I made a terrible mistake and checked my work email for some reason.  The email I received pissed me off enough that it took a full two hours to actually fall asleep.

This is not the email response I sent this morning.

b8ab1889e9a600a5675fc0a5062aca0e.jpgDear assholes:

It took me four days of work, six emails, several phone calls back and forth both to you and to my store, and at least one visit to work on what was supposed to be my day off to get you to come in and spend some fucking money on some fucking furniture.  During this entire process you repeatedly emphasized that you had sold your previous furniture and had an empty room with nothing to sit on.  I should have realized that this poor decision on your part was an indicator that you are dumb people who make stupid fucking decisions and handed you off to someone else.  But no!  I persevered, because 5% of $4000 is $200, and that’s a couple of credit card bills paid for the month.

Last night you sent me an email berating me because I had “guaranteed” that your furniture would be in your house in two weeks and when you called and scheduled your delivery today it was on the 19th, two weeks and three days after you purchased.

Lemme be clear here:  Youse a buncha lyin sonsabitches, and I’mma cancel your fucking furniture order and let you stare at some fucking bare walls where a sectional ought to be and a bare floor where you wanted a rug, because I’ll set $200 on fire before I let you fucking pricks get away with calling me a liar.

I tell every single motherfucker who buys from me the same exact fucking thing.  I say it so many times every day that it’s a programmed phrase: your shit will get here within two fucking weeks, and if you want it delivered it’ll probably take another week or so after that.  Every.  Single.  Motherfucker. Wanna know why?  Because it’s fucking true, and because I don’t make my fucking measly 5% on your shit until it is in your house.

Yeah.  Not on sale.  I don’t make shit from a sale.  I make money on delivery, which means I don’t get paid for your furniture sale until you have your furniture.  So there’s no fucking point in lying to any fucker about when their shit will arrive, because guess what?  Motherfuckers notice when they have no shit if they are expecting shit, and I have neither the time nor the energy nor the inclination to spend every fucking moment at work dodging phone calls from angry motherfuckers wanting to know where their shit is.  I know for a fucking fact that I didn’t guarantee you your shit would be in your house in two weeks because 1) it wouldn’t and 2) I never ever ever ever ever use the word guarantee to anyone, ever.

We had a bunch of fucking furniture stolen by pirates last year.  Motherfucking pirates.  That’s not a joke.  It’s fucking true, and some poor fucker had to call his fucking customers and tell them that they weren’t getting their leather sectional for two fucking months because a bunch of half-starved illiterate fucking Somalis with AK-47s and a couple of RPGs stole it.

So fuck you.  I didn’t guarantee you shit, and I sure as hell didn’t tell you your shit would be in your house in two weeks, because it would have led to this exact fucking conversation we’re having right now, only instead of you being a liar trying to extort another discount from me you would be right.  And I’m not having that.

I repeat: fuck you.  Take your shit in two weeks and three days, come pick it up your damn selves, or cancel your order and I will turn around and sell your shit to someone else.  I give no fucks which option you choose.

Oh, and this party you have scheduled for the 16th, which is exactly two weeks from the date where you made the purchase?  First of all, that’s fucking Monday, and it’s Martin Luther King Day, and no fucking pair of white-ass white people are having a fucking party on a Monday on MLK day.  I call bullshit.  Second, this would be another example of you making bad fucking decisions.  I don’t feel bad about it at all.  If you weren’t lying about the party– and you are— you would be idiots, because shit happens, and even if I’d guaranteed some shit would be in your house, it’s possible that other shit would prevent that shit from being true and your party would still suck.  Go rent some fucking folding chairs; you can’t fit more than five people on the fucking sectional you ordered anyway, goddammit.

Have I said fuck you yet?  Because fuck you.



On self-fulfilling prophecies

3a.jpgHad this customer the other day who creeped me out.  He was really rude when I greeted him when he came into the store and then was hugely demanding once he decided that it was time to be paid attention to, as if part of my job was to read his mind rather than, say, treat him like a human and try to help him out.

He demanded a quote on a couple of pieces of furniture.  Now, normally during this process I collect everyone’s address and phone number and all that other nonsense.  Naturally, Creepy was in a huge hurry for his quote once he’d decided I was worthy to serve him for a moment, so I just put the store’s phone number in and wrote it up, figuring there was no actual goddamn chance he was going to come back and buy.

So of course he came back the next day and dropped a couple grand on a leather sofa and a recliner.  He wanted delivery, and was a complete ass about 1) transit times (I cannot transport furniture instantly from Mississippi, and I do not have the warehouse space necessary to retain four or five examples of everything on our enormous fucking sales floor) and 2) delivery scheduling (I cannot give you a time window for your delivery when your furniture has not arrived and your delivery is not scheduled.)

All the while, he was creeping me out.  Mean and creepy is not a great combination, guys.  This dude is both.  In heavy doses.

“He’s gonna be an issue,” I told my boss, who was fully aware of (and shared) my creeped-outedness.  “Something will happen.  I guarantee it.  This will be an issue, and I’m going to regret ever selling anything to this guy.”

His furniture arrived yesterday.  Not only on time– early!  I unloaded his sofa from the truck myself and checked it over for anything that looked remotely like damage.  It was clean.  I double-checked that we had availability for Saturday deliveries, because he’d informed me that he had a job– no one else has one of those!– and was therefore only available for Saturday delivery.  And then I called him.

And then the phone rang.  And I cussed, because that’s annoying, when someone calls while you’re on another call.  Especially with creepy guys.

And then the recording that my store uses when we don’t answer the phone kicks in.  And I cussed again, because for some reason I’ve done this a couple of times before– the store’s number is on the invoice too, and sometimes if I’m in a hurry I won’t realize what I’m doing and I call the store instead of the customer.

And then I noticed that both of the phone entries had the store’s number.  Because when he’d come in and bought, I’d just updated the quote with his actual address, and hadn’t remembered that I’d used the store’s phone number.  And he’d refused to give me an email address because he “could think of no reason that I required it” (ha!) and so I officially had no fucking way to contact the guy at all.

I spent about ten minutes searching our invoice archives in half a dozen different ways to see if he’d bought from the store before.  No dice; one guy with the same name and a different address, but the number was dead.  I checked Facebook to see if I could find him.  Nothing going there either.  And then I sent him a Goddamn actual snail-mail letter, asking him to call the store, because there was no other way to get ahold of the fucker to let him know his shit was in.

I’m hoping he calls and schedules his furniture when I’m on my weekend.  Cross your fingers for me, ‘k?