Amanda Unvarnished

The potluck was a complete disaster.
I spent all that time and trouble making sure I brought
what I was supposed to bring, and not a soul touched it,
or even acknowledged it was there.
That’s the last time I make the effort.
And, to tell the truth, I’m highly offended.
I mean, I didn’t bring anything weird.
I brought French bread because we were having spaghetti,
and everybody knows you have to have some kind of bread
with spaghetti.
What!
Was that not country enough?
Team indeed.
Well, I hope they don’t expect me to play any more of
their Convergys games with them.
I’m not pretending I like these people, only to be
snubbed like that.
Oh, and here’s something really sick.
Convergys is launching an add campaign starting in
April.
The new slogan is: “Convergys: Outthinking, Outdoing.”
There’s even a promotional video for clients and
share-holders.
It makes me want to puke.
It says something about values, and providing twenty
years worth of top-notch customer care, human resources
and billing solutions.
It’s like the Wal-Mart commercials, except much worse.
We’ll probably be forced to wear badges with the stupid
slogan on it.
I hate corporate America.

This is completely not worth my time!
Work potlucks, or work gatherings, or mandatory work
get-togethers, or whatever you want to call them, are
bullshit!
I have a ton of other stuff to do tonight, and the last
thing I want to do is bake bread for these stupid
fuckerrs who I can’t stand in the first place.
And to make matters worse, I walked away for a bit too
long, and consequently burned the bread.
So now, I have to go back to the store, pick up some
more, and do this all over again.
I could really give a shit less about team unity, or any
of the other morale-inducements that go on at work.
And, for fuck sake, would somebody please stop the
ignorance of the roommates?
If I have to hear somebody yell “You ain’t my daddy,” or
“You ain’t donate no sperm,” or any more hip-hop talk,
which some of my politically correct acquantances like
to call Ebonics, I’m going to shoot somebody.
OK, I think I’ve ranted enough.

I had hoped I could come up with a cool subject line, but that looks like it’s out of the question for now. This is going to be long, but I have no intention of cutting it. Why? Well, for one, I’m just not that considerate right now. My level of consideration for the feelings of others has been stretched to the limit, and if you don’t want to read about why, then you can just use your down arrow key to scroll past it, or your mouse, or whatever works, but whatever you do, it’s not my problem. I hope no one takes this personally. It’s just part and parcel of the rant.
As I have stated in this space before, I have an unwanted roommate. For a little while, it looked as though things were going to work themselves out. She was supposed to move back out, and I was supposed to get my life back, and start setting things back in order. And then, a little over a week ago, things went wrong. The roommate walked in, with one of her ditsy little friends, and informed me that she is staying here permanently, and that if I have any questions, I can call the manager. By Sunday, she had arranged the apartment so that the couch is now in the middle of the living room floor, with the coffee table in front of it, leaving just enough space to walk between it and the stand with the TV and DVD player on it, which, by the way, she feels is communal property, along with the XM radio, and so that means she can use them whenever she feels like it. All of this was going on while I was fighting a really bad cold/flue thingy, so it was a surprise when I walked out Sunday to get some food, and was told that the apartment had been rearranged, again. No asking, just telling. She’s a fucking pig, and she brings strange people over, lots of them guys, and she’s loud, and just generally stupid. My house is a disaster, and there are fucking roaches everywhere. I hate it. I can’t fucking stand it. She leaves food out. Yesterday morning, when Andrew came over to pick me up for work, he saw a glass of liquid, (in her case, probably Pepci), with pieces of meat floating in it, as well as half a spam sandwitch left out on the counter. Fucking spam! She used my fucking frying pan to cook the shit, and then used my dishes to serve it. And, how the hell do you manage to end up with pieces of spam in your drink? That shouldn’t be a possibility, if you’re civilized. Fucking Gentile heathen! And then, wonder of wonders, she has the chutzpah to bitch about the bugs! So she came up with the brilliant idea of bathing the kitchen in Raid. Oh! And when I mentioned that the couch needs to be put back where it was, due to the very small and insignificant fact that its current placement renders it, along with the coffee table, a safety hazzard, I was told that it can’t be moved back much further, because of the bar stools. When I suggested putting the bar stools back where they were, I was told that “it looks cute,” and how she had done such a good job redecorating the living room, and then the matter was dropped. For those who haven’t put it together, that’s an attempt at a subtle way to tell me that I can fuck off. I refuse to live like this. My kitchen is practically unusable, if you have any concern about preparing your meals in a clean environment, because it’s been infested with roaches, and then bathed in Raid, but not cleaned up after the bath, and it just wouldn’t be a good idea to make a meal with that kind of risk. My apartment’s been completely overrun with ghetto trash. In January, another one is moving in. The roommate overdrew her checking account by over $200, and can’t figure out how she did it. And even when you add up all the NSF charges, you still have $25 or so you can’t account for, and she isn’t that worried about not being able to account for it. She’s worried about not having money to spend on her birthday. No worries about bills, unless you count the cell phone bill, and that’s because she stays on that damned thing constantly. Well, I’m not going to fucking babysit. I didn’t create the drama, and I’m not going to be responsible for holding things together. I’m going to leave, in whatever way necessary, whether that be by subleasing or just moving, But if I just move, and the complex wants to give me hell about it, I’ll go to the media, and raise the issue of picking on the blink. I don’t usually play that card, but I will if I have to. Everyone I’ve talked to agrees that they would have never moved someone in on someone who is sighted, without their permission, and then come out and said that if they expected their rights and needs to be respected that it would be best if they moved. And that, my friends, is discrimination. I am not going to live in disgusting, dangerous conditions. I don’t work my ass off at Convergys only to come home and get more of the same crap. And, by the way, I got written up last week, again, this time for missing two days for having a really bad cold. Far be it from Cornelius to think, “Hey, maybe I should exclude some occurrances, since she was very obviously sick.” No, that just makes too much fucking sense. There’s that fucking L word again, and we all know how bad that is. The roommate situation makes me want to go out and purchase home protection pieces, (for those who don’t know, that’s a nice little term for guns, which probably sounds more palatable to liberal ears, coined by my friend Andrew, who likes weapons a lot despite his liberality), and come and test them on the apartment and everything and everyone in it. I don’t want to come home and hear ghetto music blaring, or stupid people talking, or anything like that, and I shouldn’t have to. I didn’t tell the little whore she could move in, and I’ll do everything in my power to get the fuck out, if I have to. I don’t want to hear about the latest condom and Ky jelly purchases, (I’m sorry, but if you’re as young as she is, and you need KY jelly, then that means you’ve really been around, hence the whore comment), and I don’t want to hear how good spam is, and I don’t want to smell the shit. I want my fucking life back, and the prospect of peace and quiet to end my day. Is that too much to ask? really? I mean, come on!
Everybody feel free to comment. Yeah, I know the begging was harsh, but like I said, it’s nothing personal. And, believe it or not, when you guys comment, it makes things a little easier. At least then, I know someone’s being entertained. I’ll keep you all posted on this situation.

I’m finally starting to get over this cold/flue virus thingy I’ve been battling for the last week. I went to the kitchen to grab a sub sandwitch I had in the refridgerator, and found that the roommate had eaten half of it, and didn’t even wrap the other half up properly. That’s just fucking inconsiderate and rude. You don’t touch someone else’s food without permission. I feel like I’ve been put through the ringer twice, and I’m getting ready to work an eight-day stretch. Not cool. I’m waiting for the laundry to finish drying, but I really don’t feel like putting it away. Found the menorah, and it’s burning in the window right now. More later.

I’ve had a very strange weekend.
I walked in to my apartment Saturday night after work to
a bunch of strange people who had absolutely no business
being there.
There was ghetto music blaring out of my TV, my books
were all over the place, and my apartment was in the
process of being rearranged to fit somebody else’s
likes.
When I opened the door, (which was unlocked), the
intruders even had the nerve to try to joke around with
me, and tell me I was at the wrong apartment.
I thought the same thing myself, due to the fact that
the place didn’t smell like my apartment usually does,
(besides the familiar smell of the place, I had some
apple-cinnamon Glade plug-ins, and it kind of smelled
like incense, since I burn that a lot, and it smelled
like books). I’m sure when you walk into your home
after a long time away from it, you recognize familiar
smells that identify it as your home, as opposed to
someone else’s.
Well, every last bit of that was gone when I walked in
Saturday night after work.
I got no notice from the apartment management that they
wanted to move someone else in, and they have my number,
because they gave it to the woman who’s my current
roommate.
This new person isn’t a roommate, she’s an occupier.
From the information she, her mother, her aunt and some
guy who I, (and Andrew from looking at the kid who was
with him), assume is her baby’s daddy, despite what they
all say about him being just a family friend, there was
some sort of “altercation” between the invader and her
former roommates, and she got locked out of her
apartment.
No violence was involved, no threats were made, and,
according to all of them, she wasn’t the offender, and
she didn’t do anything wrong.
Yet someone decided that the situation was of emergency
importance, so much so that they had no problem telling
some strange people to just go right ahead and move into
my apartment, because this poor 19-year-old girl
couldn’t figure out how to deal with her roommates, and
because she’s alergic to cats, and because she wanted
her other roommate, who she got along with, to have a
chance to move in with her.
All of the above is absolutely not my problem, and I
could care less.
They said there was another apartment open.
Let her move into that one, after the people living
there have been notified.
It wouldn’t kill her and her friendly roommate to have
to deal with the inconvenience of walking less than a
block to be able to hang out.
Or better yet, she can grow up, and learn to resolve the
dispute with the other roommates.
I didn’t create the drama, and I shouldn’t have to bear
the consequences.
I sure as hell am not going to put up with someone
coming into my apartment, without my permission or
knowledge, and taking it over.
The contents of my cabbinets have been
rearranged, my refridgerator has been rearranged, my
stove’s in pieces, my books are all over the place.
Their excuse: “We just wanted to clean up a little.”
First of all, my apartment wasn’t dirty.
Yes, it needed to be straightened up, which I am quite
capable of doing myself, and had set aside for my next
day off.
Secondly, even if I wanted someone else to do it, I’m
quite capable of asking myself.
But that’s beyond the point.
They ended up making more of a mess than straightening.
My place is now a disaster area.
Sure, they mopped the kitchen floor, and wiped down the
kitchen.
But that’s it.
Everything else they wanted to do is just a list of
ideas, and, as I said, her shit’s all over the place in
my living room, along with my books, and the trash can
from the kitchen.
Apparently, she likes her trash can better.
I’m going to the office later today, and going seven
levels of postal.
This is completely unacceptable.
Furthermore, I’m not going to put up with it.
She is going to get the fuck out, and I will expend
every last bit of effort I can muster to get her out.
23 November 2004
It’s Tuesday now.
I went to the office yesterday afternoon.
After they gushed on about how they understood how much
of a shock it must have been to find several strangers
in my apartment, and then further to have them try to
convince me I was at the wrong apartment because they
thought it might be funny, and still further to find
that everything in my cabbinets had been rearranged, I
was told that, if I really expected my rights and needs
to be respected, then it would be best if I moved,
because this complex doesn’t cater to mature adults.
Well, that’s perfectly fine with me.
If they think I should move, so be it.
I’ll be out of here as soon as possible.
Since I started writing this last week, things have
changed yet again.
The head manager’s gotten involved, agreed that it was a
bad move on the part of the assistant manager to move
the girl in without letting me know, and has prepared a
list of apartments for her to look at in order to find a
permanent place to live, permanent being relative to the
length of her lease.
So that means she’ll be out of here soon.
That’s good, because the only praise from her mother
I’ve seen her live up to is the part about working.
Im yirtza Yehovah, this will all be over soonn, and I
can get back to my life before all the upheaval.

Well fellow journalers, unfortunately, I have more crap to report from the Cue Continuum. I got my second quality write up on Thursday, for transferring a doctor to prior authorization when he specifically asked me to do just that, and after he had given me his name. But this time, the disciplinary action wasn’t administered in the monitoring room. It was administered on the floor, at the supervisor desk, in front of G-d and everybody. Quite humiliating. I tried to fight it. I turned what my stuporvisor was probably thinking would be a ten minute incident into one that lasted over an hour. When my stuporvisor said that I was given a 51.11 by quality for the above-mentioned call, and that he was giving me my written warning, (to my recollection, it was supposed to be one summary of discussion, one verbal, one written, and then you’re gone, but apparently I’m wrong. It’s one verbal, one written and then you’re gone), I protested as much as I could. Quality said I insisted on transferring the doctor to PA. Apparently saying “Let me transfer you to prior authorization” is now insisting. Quality also said I didn’t get his information. He gave me his name. What was I supposed to do, keep him on the line, get all his information, even though he specifically asked to be transferred to PA, only to have him repeat his info again? That would make three times for him to repeat his info. Apparently, however, I’m to do just that. And when I asked if my overall record would be considered when and/or if it came to the point of “termination” (after all, I have a quality score of 100 percent, with the exception of the two calls that quality has given me below 90 on, I’m always there, on time, and I do my work without complaint), and I was given the corporate version of no. I took it all the way to Jeff, who is the business manager, and got the same answer, and was told that ‘This is written in stone, and was decided by management, Express Scripts, and Human Resources. If you want to dispute it, you can go to Human resources.) In other words, Jeff, Dionne, and Miguel negotiated it, and Convergys aggreed to sacrifice its employees for the sake of Express Scripts’ pleasure and in order to keep the contract. We all know what will happen if I go to HR. They’ll fill out a paper, saying they’re investigating it, and it’ll go nowhere. Meanwhile, I suppose I’ll just have to remember not to trust my own judgment, because no matter what I have for a record, and no matter how hard I’ve worked, I’ll get shit on in the end, and canned if I don’t. I’ll just have to start asking tons of questions as well, so I don’t run the risk of running afowl of the almighty quality gods. And as if that’s not enough, the database has been “upgraded”, and as a result I get a big, huge long java eror whenever I try to do an override, and they’re blaming it on Jaws, and it’s apparently my responsibility to fix it, since I’m the only one who uses Jaws, and if it’s not fixed, I’ll probably be told that it’s best if I resign. For those who don’t know, overrides are a large part of what we do. I’m telling you right now, if they fire me, I’ll make a huge scene. If they’re going to escort me off the property, I’m going to give them a reason to, and I’ll make them go so far as to call the cops. I hate working for a company that treats its bottom-rung employees like shit, and where even the supervosirs will stab you in the back. When it came to my write-up Thursday, my supervisor went to John, who was my trainer, and apparently John told him that we’re not to supposed to transfer doctors to PA when they ask to be transferred. Only I’ve had several other agents who have worked there almost as long as I have tell me that we can do that. Fucking liberal bastard! For one thing, I don’t remember him even addressing that in training. Furthermore, like I said, I’ve had several agents tell me that what I did was correct, so if it’s not, when why aren’t more people being written up by quality for the same thing? I’m not a conspiracy theorist, and I always try to give people the benefit of the doubt, but all this week has done is to reinforce my belief that they’re gunning for me, and they’re not going to stop until I’m gone. Yeah well, when they do finally get rid of me, I’m going to make sure that they create a martyr. I’m not going quietly, or meekly. I’m going to be extremely vocal about it. So, if any of you here about me getting in trouble with the cops, don’t be surprised.
Feel free to comment with your thoughts, as well as oppinions.