Aside – Page 198 – Amanda Unvarnished

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· 4 Av 5765 (Tuesday 9 August 2005) · 1 minute to read

I just looked at my paycheck online. I only got paid for 64 hours. That’s a little over a week and a half. Fucking Cornelius! Why does he have to be so
incompetant? The little shit probably keyed in my hours incorrectly, *again*, because I know I was there, and worked, for 80 hours within that pay period.
Fuck me! And given the supervisor changes going on, I’m not sure who I’m supposed to go to about this. If I go straight to HR, they’ll just tell me to
go to my supervisor. I hate that fucking job! Why can’t I just go in to work sedated, or drunk? I mean, it would be easier to deal with it that way. I
thought about going for benefits, but why would I want to do that when they keep fucking up my paycheck, and I have to make some serious rearrangements
just to get my fucking bills paid? GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!

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Amanda CAARSON

· 1 Tevet 5765 (Monday 13 December 2004) · 7 minutes to read

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.

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Amanda CAARSON

· 1 Heshvan 5765 (Friday 15 October 2004) · 9 minutes to read

I don’t have to see the Cue Continuum for the next three days or so, and I’ve got chicken and rice in the crockpot, which makes for good writing conditions. It’s been rainy here off and on all week, especially today and yesterday and Wednesday. This entry could get rather long, but not long enough that it warrants a cut, at least in my oppinion, and my oppinion is the only oppinion that matters.
I didn’t watch the debate this week. I’ve been under the weather for the last few days, and just didn’t have the attention span for it. Allen Dorch, one of the bigwigs from Express Scripts, was at the Cue Continuum this week. So, naturally, he was welcomed with honors by management, and we customer servants were expected to pay him the proper respect befitting our overlord. For those who couldn’t tell, the previous statement was rife with sarcasm. DJ inquired, and I have to agree: “Is this the man who fucks me in the ass on a daily basis?” to which, he got no answer from management, and uproars of laughter from those of us who sit on his row. He didn’t break any rules, (at least any that I know of), and John’s in training this week bringing what are supposed to be more agents, (most of whom will probably join the Mama P Moffia), onto the floor, so DJ probably won’t be reprimanded for that comment. Everyone on my row wanted me to try and trip Dorch with my cane, and some offered to do it themselves. But I never managed it. I almost tripped Gail though, and Cornelius, (my supervisor), so that was cool. That would so humiliate either of them, and I’d love to get the chance to do that. The results of the popularity contest known as the mass application for the supervisor position are supposed to be out today, so that means I’ll probably find out who joined the ranks of the willingly-assimilated on Monday. It probably won’t be Vernon, because he’s the most qualified for the job, and that would make the most sense, and he’s not going to just do what he’s told, no matter the ethical or moral consequences. DJ probably won’t get it, because he’s too vocal about his dislike of what goes on around there. Rebecca might get it, because she’s Ms. Convergys, and they’ll like that. Beyond that, I don’t know about the rest. I’ll post the results here. Some of my readers might be interested, especially and
I’m beginning to think that, whoever becomes president needs to grant someone the funds to do a study on what exactly everyone who works in the human resources departments across this country does all fucking week, because they never get anything right. I got paid this week, and for 80 hours of work, I was paid $423. Fucking pathetic. Every pay period, I have to go to HR, and argue with them over my paycheck, and then they tell me they’ll look into it. I’m sick and tired of this. Can’t I have one pay period where everything is as it should be, and I’m not shorted a huge amount of money? I’m supposed to be paid $8.50 per hour, and I know that that should come out to more than $423, even after taxes. I’m sick and tired of all the shit! Why does this whole thing have to be so damned difficult? You can’t tell me it’s that fucking difficult to get this shit straight. Come on! We all have computers, and Windows is virtually dummy-proof, and most of the people who work in our HR dept don’t even know enough to be dangerous. So what’s the problem? Every time I walk in to HR, nothing’s going on, except the latest episode of as the cluster fucks, meaning that all that’s really going on is a bunch of gossip. I have an idea. Let’s build the JW Cathedral, and put everyone from HR in it, no matter what company they work for, and just lock the doors. They can feed on miracle wheat for the rest of their lives, and that way they won’t bother any of us, ever again. (If you need an explanation as to the origin of the JW cathedral concept, please leave a comment.) And let’s throw Bob in there too, just to annoy the HR people. And we could throw Mell Gibson in there as well. That ought to make things really interesting. BTW, yes, I have seen the Passion of the Gibson, (otherwise known as The Passion of the Christ), and will review it in a later entry.
And now, for an apology. Ray, I want to apologize for criticizing you for being neurotic. I’m not saying you weren’t neurotic, I’m just saying you had every single right to be neurotic. Given the events in the past couple of weeks, I’m headed there myself. To tell the truth, I’m paranoid that I’m going to slip up and say something that will incriminate me in the eyes of Quality, and thus get me fired. You know it’s bad when you wonder what you’ve done every time your supervisor tells you to log into coaching, and comes over to your cube with a piece of paper and a pen. And you know it’s really bad when you start having fucked-up dreams about your place of employment. I think the most disturbing dream was the one where my boyfriend moved Convergys to the basement of his house so that we could be closer to each other, and so he could make some extra money by charging them rent. And I was wearing a headset during the dream, and Jaws was narrating it. I think I’m going to get really drunk this weekend, since it’s three days long. I’ll be fine once I quit working for Convergys, which should be as soon as I’ve saved up enough money to move, but getting there could be interesting. I think I need a new T-shirt, which says: Pray for me, I work for Convergys. Or we could make that in to a bumper sticker. I could probably make some money off something like that.
I think I need a new crockpot. Everything keeps sticking to the one I have, no matter how much liquid you put in, and it’s too small, so you can’t add lots of stuff to whatever you’re making. For instance, not much vegetable to the chicken and rice. And, as I said, things keep sticking, no matter how much you stir or how much liquid you put in. I’ll probably get one that allows for the glass part to be removed, for easier cleaning. I saved what I could of the chicken and rice, (which was over half, so not bad), and am now letting the crockpot soak. Better luck next time.
Ken quit Convergys this week, so there goes our source for sick, twisted humor. I’m going to miss him. He was quite entertaining. I’m surprised he didn’t quit beforehand, though.
Here’s a good idea for an updated way to choose the president. Given that they’re all going to lie to some degree or other, and, in actuality, Congress makes most of the decisions anyway, let’s just have a presidential drinking contest. Whoever wins the contest gets the presidency. Sounds good enough to me. Or let’s just have a presidential street fight. Nothing wrong with brutal violent contact sports, unless your a sensitive new-age guy, in which case, I have no use for you anyway. Whoever wins the fight gets the presidency. Not too difficult, or complicated. We could televise those too, and they’d be a lot more fun to watch, and you can’t say it wouldn’t be entertaining to watch carey and Bush duke it out.
Here’s one last rant: Why is it that people who don’t live in this country feel they have a right to make decisions about who should govern it? And most of those comments aren’t coming from countries with whom we’ve contended in war, they’re coming from countries in Europe, or the southern hemesphere, who, as a whole, aren’t doing a damned thing to try to make this world a better place for everybody to live in, unless you count taking kick-backs from the oil-for-food program as doing their part. Our leaders are far from perfect, and they should be called to task for any decisions they make which have a negative effect, or are viewed as irresponsible. But the only people who have a right to do that are the people who put them in their current positions, and those people are the citizens of this country. We may not be doing everything right in the war against terrorists. But at least we’ve taken a stand, and we’re not going to just sit around and let fanatics take over the world, and destroy societies who value freedom and basic human rights. Furthermore, we aren’t telling the European Union who it’s leaders should be, nor are we telling any of the other countries in which liberals who have decided they know best who should lead this country reside who their leaders should be. Therefore, anyone who has the urge to dictate to the United States who its leaders should be would do well to extend the same courtesy.
I think I’ve written enough for one entry, so I’ll end it here. Everybody take care, and feel free to leave comments. I’m sure I’ve said something that will piss somebody off. Sometimes I get a real kick out of doing that. LOL!

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Amanda CAARSON

· 1 Av 5764 (Monday 19 July 2004) · 6 minutes to read

This has been cross-posted on the Convergys community as well.
> I’m sitting here at my computer, listening to “It’s
Five OClock
> Somewhere,” in a desperate attempt to get myself
motivated for the
> tragedy that I know must come later today … In other
words, I have to
> go back to Convergys. Noooooooooooo!!!!!!!! Somebody
save me!!!! That
> place is absolutely, completely and totally evil. We
do at least sixteen
> hours of work in an eight hour day. We stay in cue
because Convergys
> refuses to hire more people, and most of the people we
do have working
> there don’t do anything but goof off all day. I don’t
know how many times
> I’ve been on the phone, taking phone calls from irate
doctors and
> pharmacists, and, lo and behold, “Showtime At The
Apollo” is going on
> throughout the center. It’s not that I’m the only
diligent worker. There
> are a few of us: My friend Andrew, a guy named Dan
Schuler, (Ray, he’s
> married to Heidie), and at least half the ASC Team,
which is about six
> people. In total, there’s probably about thirty of us
who work our asses
> off around there, with no appreciation whatsoever. And
there are And
> there is snapping on a serious scale within our ranks.
On Friday, Dan
> announced to everyone that could hear that he wanted
to kill about twelve
> pharmacists, and had to be sent off the floor to cool
down. Saturday,
> Andrew went apeshit after he had a pharmacist spend
five minutes taunting
> him, and being especially uncooperative, and also had
to leave the floor
> for some quiet time. We spent Saturday having to deal
with an unusually
> slow specimen of klooginess that calls itself a
database, and we spent
> eight hours being subjected to more “showtime”
episodes, and having to
> listen to music of the Urban variety that was at
entirely too high a
> volume to keep the floor at any level of seeming
professionalism. By the
> end, Justin, one of the ASC members, was threatening
to bring a taser gun
> to work, and start shooting anyone he caught goofing
off instead of
> pulling their weight, and getting the fuck on the
phones and helping us
> out. He too had to leave the floor. I think I might be
the next one to
> snap, and it’s not because I feel left out, and want
some attention. I’m
> pretty much to the breaking point, and I literally
have to laugh to keep
> from crying. They keep introducing more and more
rules. For instance:
> We have to sign a form to use the bathroom; While on
calls, we have to
> observe the following: Never interrupt the caller;
Make sure to address
> human needs; Make sure to use “team” statements to
convey “ownership” of
> the call, (totally negates the rule stated just
above); Convey
> confidence; Be sure to use proper pace, volume and
clarity; Make sure the
> caller had a good experience; Make sure to acknowledge
the caller’s
> issue, (this translates into “make sure you convey
that they have your
> complete, undivided attention); Apologize and be
empathetic, (this
> translates to: Agent can’t find information in system,
so, agent says: “I
> apologize, but, unfortunately … “); Always use
courteous tones and
> terminology; Convey desire to help caller; address
human nneeds; You get
> the picture. Quality is now being determined by
computer, with no human
> input, which totally does away with the human issues
that get involved.
> And, lest I forget, we are to keep the Convergys
Commandments before us
> at all times during our day, lest we forget one, and
get screwed. And, as
> iff all this wasn’t enough, we found out last week
that Express Scripts
> hasn’t signed a permanent contract, and has no plans
to do so. Thus, we
> will be laid off sometime in the near future. And they
wonder why people
> are flipping out. Even the more ignorant among us are
starting to figure
> it out. Of course, management doesn’t know how to
handle a few smart
> people flying off the handle. They just have John, one
of the better
> supervisors, deal with us. The rest of them are all
running scared. When
> Andrew flipped Saturday, my supervisor, (a guy who
calls himself Corn),
> came running trying to find out what was going on, and
he was half scared
> out of his pea-sized mind. Add all these new rules on
to the ones that
> already exist to torment us, and you’re bound to have
some sort of verbal
> melt-down going on. The biggest rule-problem is the
annoying service
> level pukes who keep ringing my phone if I’m “out of
production” for any
> length of time. If any one group of people over there
ends up being the
> recipient of my wrath, it’ll be them. I mean, there’s
still the Convergys
> Mass Choir, but they’re a given. I swear, this whole
thing makes me
> desperately wish that someone could administer alcohol
intravenously. I
> mean, I administered it Saturday night, and was pretty
plastered, but I
> can’t go in to work like that. I wish I could. I’d
feel a lot better.
> This situation makes me want to curl up in a ball and
just cry for a
> really long time. I’ve had to sacrifice so much in
order to take this
> job. I mean, I lie to people all day, every day, and
I’ve worked on every
> Sabbath and festival that’s occurred since I got this
job, and, if I have
> it until then, I know I’ll be working Rosh Hashanah
and Yom Kippur as
> well. Even secular Jews go to synagogue on those three
days, and I’ll
> most likely be working. And, of course, since I don’t
have fifty million
> kids and an engagement with my baby’s daddy, there’s
no way I can be
> accomodated when it comes to scheduling. We’re
supposed to have unpaid
> time off, and paid time off, but those are as illusive
as Santa Clause.
> In other words, they just tell us we have them, and
don’t let us use it.
> And then I get some bullshit from the business
manager: My supervisor
> doesn’t let me know when Unpaid time off is available,
and it’s just a
> shortcoming in the system that I have to deal with,
because they don’t
> want to take into account that their G-d-forsaken
little kloogy instant
> messenger doesn’t work with my screen reader. So, I’m
just supposed to
> deal. Someone, please, come and take me away from this
shit.