Nic is a Big Meanie
The majority has spoken, therefore you get to read about exactly why I have a reputation at work for being a bitch. However, as I wrote this, I decided that I don’t find it terribly interesting once written, so I wouldn’t really recommend it. I'm certain that I could come up with a better story of my bitchiness, but whatever. You have been warned.
I’ve had the same job at my parents’ restaurant for almost six years, which means that I can do just about anything there better than anyone except my mother. Since going to school, I only work on breaks and when I come home on weekends (which is when I start to get low on funds). This is where I insert the disclaimer:
I understand that it must be disconcerting to start a job and get used to your co-workers only to have some strange new girl come in and point out when you’re making mistakes. On top of that, the bitch is your bosses’ daughter, so you can’t say anything.
This isn’t a difficult job. It’s a lot of stuff to remember at first, buit as far as I’m concerned, after two weeks or so things should start to click and be much easier.
I have no idea when The Moron started, but I know she was there when I came home for Thanksgiving, and she is certainly earning her name. Last Thursday night, I went to work in a weird mood, the beginning of a funk—one of those moods that is quickly turned into flat-out bitchiness. The Moron has a tendency to hover and stare when she has a questions instead of just asking, and it seriously annoys me. In an effort to avoid eating her face, I asked her nicely to please just speak up. She did twice before returning to the hover-and-stare method.
I was annoyed.
She made all of the drinks on an order the wrong size. She hover-and-stared until I gave her explicit instructions on how to correct the mistake. (Pour the drinks in the proper sized cups, then add more liquid until they’re full enough.)
I was irritated.
She ignored a customer waiting to be helped, forcing me to stop what I was doing to wait on them. (Your job is to wait on people, not walk away when they come in the door.)
I was angry, and at this point I was slamming around and not talking to anyone, including my father. He told me that he was tired of my attitude, which only made me angrier.
We were cleaning before we closed, and while I was scrubbing away ice cream spots and sticky Dr. Pepper (which is cathartic), The Moron was chatting and listlessly dabbing at a counter with a sponge. An order that she was capable of making came in. She ignored it.
I was pissed. I told her about it. I was not quiet. I was not nice. I was not polite. I was not tactful. I told her the truth, and the truth often hurts.
I made the order and wiped down everything in the restaurant myself. She avoided me, and I noticed how shiny her eyes were when we were cleaning floors, our last chore before leaving. The idea that she was almost crying gave me sense of accomplishment, securing my room in the third level of Hell.
When I got to work on Friday, a co-worker stopped me to tell me that she had fun information about The Moron, which meant that it was something negative about her that would amuse me. Apparently she told someone at school that morning that she couldn’t wait until I went back to school, and that if I wasn’t leaving soon, she would have quit that night.
I believe that the joy that I experienced at this revelation upgraded my room in Hell to a suite, complete with a Jacuzzi and a lovely view of the fiery lake.
I’ve had the same job at my parents’ restaurant for almost six years, which means that I can do just about anything there better than anyone except my mother. Since going to school, I only work on breaks and when I come home on weekends (which is when I start to get low on funds). This is where I insert the disclaimer:
I understand that it must be disconcerting to start a job and get used to your co-workers only to have some strange new girl come in and point out when you’re making mistakes. On top of that, the bitch is your bosses’ daughter, so you can’t say anything.
This isn’t a difficult job. It’s a lot of stuff to remember at first, buit as far as I’m concerned, after two weeks or so things should start to click and be much easier.
I have no idea when The Moron started, but I know she was there when I came home for Thanksgiving, and she is certainly earning her name. Last Thursday night, I went to work in a weird mood, the beginning of a funk—one of those moods that is quickly turned into flat-out bitchiness. The Moron has a tendency to hover and stare when she has a questions instead of just asking, and it seriously annoys me. In an effort to avoid eating her face, I asked her nicely to please just speak up. She did twice before returning to the hover-and-stare method.
I was annoyed.
She made all of the drinks on an order the wrong size. She hover-and-stared until I gave her explicit instructions on how to correct the mistake. (Pour the drinks in the proper sized cups, then add more liquid until they’re full enough.)
I was irritated.
She ignored a customer waiting to be helped, forcing me to stop what I was doing to wait on them. (Your job is to wait on people, not walk away when they come in the door.)
I was angry, and at this point I was slamming around and not talking to anyone, including my father. He told me that he was tired of my attitude, which only made me angrier.
We were cleaning before we closed, and while I was scrubbing away ice cream spots and sticky Dr. Pepper (which is cathartic), The Moron was chatting and listlessly dabbing at a counter with a sponge. An order that she was capable of making came in. She ignored it.
I was pissed. I told her about it. I was not quiet. I was not nice. I was not polite. I was not tactful. I told her the truth, and the truth often hurts.
I made the order and wiped down everything in the restaurant myself. She avoided me, and I noticed how shiny her eyes were when we were cleaning floors, our last chore before leaving. The idea that she was almost crying gave me sense of accomplishment, securing my room in the third level of Hell.
When I got to work on Friday, a co-worker stopped me to tell me that she had fun information about The Moron, which meant that it was something negative about her that would amuse me. Apparently she told someone at school that morning that she couldn’t wait until I went back to school, and that if I wasn’t leaving soon, she would have quit that night.
I believe that the joy that I experienced at this revelation upgraded my room in Hell to a suite, complete with a Jacuzzi and a lovely view of the fiery lake.
Labels: my insanity, work
posted by nicalyse @ 10:51 PM
4 Comments:
OMG Nic, this wasn't boring at all I absolutely loved this blog! Mostly because as someone who has worked at jobs since she was fifteen I can completely understand the frustration. I think we have all had our share of retarded co-workers and even dumber customers. But what I loved about this is that you were in the position to actually tell this person off.
As for the hover and stare, seriously the most annoying thing ever I agree! I also have no self-control for training new employees. All I want to do is take the manual throw it in their face and tell them to figure it out. I once had this supervisor from hell, the thing was that she never did her job, and therefore left it for the rest of us to do. There was a point where I was promoting and heading to a new area, and asked if I could train one night. She point blank looked at me and said no, because she was going over there and relaxing because she was tired. She then left me to to finish mine and her duties for the evening. So I definitely understand the frustrations of jobs! Kudos for making her cry though!
The good news, if you are going to hell you will be in good company. Scribbie definitely is on that waiting list. :P
Yay for good company on the best floor of Hell. My room's reserved with a whirlpool and balcony. We should make plans to fry together. :D Anyhow, this girl... Waitressing, no matter how you look at it, is NOT the hardest thing ever. I remember when I was a waitress - you waited on people. This chunk sounds like she's a lazy little princess that was forced by her parents to have a job. Moron should NOT be waitressing. You know - You had good right to tell her off, and to me, you should have done it at the first hover-and-stare. [i]Listen, it's not hard. You ask what they want, WRITE IT DOWN, and get it. Not hard. Stop bothering me![/i] *rolls eyes* You would think that everything is rocket science... lol... these people make breathing look difficult.
:D Such satisfaction to know you've gotten to her so bad she can't wait for you to leave while you know in the back of your mind that you'll always belong there more than she will.. hehehe. Stupid bint.
Okay! Eeek! *HUGS* I'm so happy you're back!!
I think you were being nice when you gave her the pseudonym 'The Moron'. Then again, from what I can gather from this post, there's very few words in the English language that would appropriately describe this idiot.
I had to laugh at her. Usually I'm a sentimental idiot when people cry and it gets to me, but honestly; when you finally lost your temper completely and had a go at her, which had been a long time coming from the sounds of it, she should have had the courage to acknowledge she did it wrong and apologize. Not go off and cry about it. Idiot. Good work, Nic.
Wow. You see, it is situations (and people) like that that have quickly turned me into a misanthrope. You poor thing. I can't even imagine having to work with someone like that. And trust me, I know exactly how frustrating girls like that can be.
My brother's ex-girlfriend was the Moron. Basically the same person. In other words, a complete and total idiot who could not process anything you told her. Now, I put up with her for a long time. I did the fake smile thing, pretended to look like I cared when she would tell me things or whine and bitch about how my brother never had enough time for her. Then, one not so special day, I snapped. Much like you. Perhaps I too was in a funk. Whatever the case, I was sick of her whiny attitude (there is more to the story obviously but I'll spare you the details) and one day I told her flat out that I did not, nor would I ever, care about what she had to say and that, quite frankly, I thought she was a bitch and that my brother could do better, namely, dating someone with more than two braincells.
This is a true story. That is what I really said. And, surprise surprise, apparently those words were triggers for the waterworks to come on full force. Yes, I made her cry. Not just cry, mind you...bawl. Sob. Right in front of me. And Nic, I kid you not, when I saw that, not only did I physically smirk....I felt triumphant.
So yeah, see you in Hell darling. It'll be loads of fun, I promise. ;)
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