Okay. I know blogging about work makes kind of an uber-dork, but here's the thing... not really a whole lot else going on in my life (unless you'd prefer a conversation about how many different kinds of cysts one person can develop.. the latest in the series, the ganglion cyst. I am NOT hitting it with a Bible, so don't suggest it. The cyst has informed me that it is in fact agnostic, and would prefer to be hit with a secular book, and I have yet to find one that meets the job description. I'm thinking Tolstoy might have the chops, but I need to do more research).
That being said,
after I went back to work the other day, when CIC confronted me about emptying my bladder on company time, I was having a pretty rough day. I had a sinus headache, I found out that my bank account is all kinds of screwed up (hello, overdrafts I've never had before!) I've probably got more charges coming through, and won't have the money to fix it until first payday (NEXT Friday). I guess he could tell I was feeling the pressure... I say this because he told me he could tell I was feeling the pressure. In his own little crafty, weird, overtly sexual CIC way. It was 5:33, I'd punched out, and was making a beeline for my car, when I felt the cold hand of death on my arm. I turned, mentally preparing myself to meet my Maker, life flashing before my eyes, when I saw that the bony, ice covered digits were attached to the hand of.. none other than the CIC himself.
"Um... you alright, pretty lady?" (Seriously, I don't know why he calls me that. I didn't ask him to, I haven't ever shown him my breasts in an attempt to fish for pervy compliments, and our very first conversation ever was me emphatically repeating that I'd just gotten married and ws so very happy that I didn't require him EVER to refer to me as baby, honey, pretty lady, or any other pet name he could think of. Okay, maybe I didn't say all that, but that's how it would've gone if I'd have known he was going to revert to Uncle Chester-like tactics).
"I'm good. Just didn't feel to great today.. sinuses... *nervous laugh*"
"You sure? *stares at me warily* I can smell these things, you know *taps the end of his nose*."
[end scene before it disturbs anyone any further]
He can smell these things?! What the hell does that even mean?! I struggled not to panic as I imagined CIC sneaking up behind me like a punk-rocker rodent, waving my air towards his flared nostrils and panting uncontrollably.
I don't get paid enough for this crap.
A Practical Joke: Stacking the Deck
1 year ago
1 comments:
No, you really don't get paid enouh for that kind of crap. Ummm, even in these parts pet names are considered sexual harassment, and at the very least A BAD IDEA for someone to do in a workplace. Ugh Why does he have to be so skeevy?
And the ganglion cyst- I know someone who had theirs' surgically removed. I had also heard the "whack it with a book!" method. Crazy. I wouldn't try it, but if you do- definitely try Tolstoy.
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