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Jun 25

More Love Letters of Doom

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Let’s play a game of riddles!

 

What has two thumbs, is working this weekend, and has a less than positive attitude about it?

 

If you didn’t know that I was referring to myself, then you’re obviously new here. Welcome. And brace yourself.

 

It just so happens that the 30th, and termination dates for two of my apartments, falls on Sunday and I will have to do inspections on Sunday morning. The past several months have been a culmination of backstabbing, broken promises, belligerence, and believe it or not, it’s not me. Between some of the tenants, and the people I work with, I positively dread rolling out of bed in the morning to come to this awful place, and I have moments every single day where I fight the urge to quit without notice and become penniless and homeless because it can’t possibly be worse than working with people who clearly hate you.

Needless to say, I’ve been trying not to unload this because it’s not funny, it’s just really horrible, but if I don’t let some of this out, I’m going to lose my shit, so here goes nothing. I’ll try to make it amusing.

 

knifefight

Love Letters of Doom – the Ultimatum

 

Dear boss and coworkers,

Remember when I started here and was just a dumb girl employee who couldn’t be trusted to properly check out an apartment? No, that was the work of far more competent people of the male persuasion. But then the first weekend turnover happened and it’s been my job ever since. Because working a weekend be women’s work now.

 

Of course, that never stops you from micromanaging the ever loving bejeezus out of my work. “Is the oven clean? Are the drip plans clean? Did you check blinds? Did you check screens? Did you pull out the appliances and make sure it was clean underneath?”

 

Hmm, let me think…Yeah, no. I stood there in the middle of the apartment and communed with the good spirits who told me that everything is in acceptable condition. The notebook full of condition notes is actually a journal in which I write moving poetry and the big ass camera around my neck is just a ridiculously oversized necklace. Jackass.

 

Meanwhile, I’ll be taking a half day to make up for the hours I’ll be working on my day off and I have no doubt that you’re going to pitch a fit because I wasn’t there to answer the phone that isn’t ringing. You’ll keep watching what time I leave for appointments, or lunches that you don’t think I’m entitled to, and you’ll note the times that I return and harass me about where I am and what I’m doing every second of my day while still willfully disobeying the law and not paying overtime. Where was I for an hour? Well, not that my lunch plans are any of your business, but I figured I’d drive to the local park, have a sandwich, and possibly sacrifice a virgin to the Great Mephistopheles for a few minutes before returning to my mundane existence as a lowly “secretary.” Also, let’s discuss titles here, Skippy McMisogynist. I know you probably use Mad Men as your HR handbook and idolize Don Draper, but the word “secretary” went out of style around the same time as Jane Fonda’s hairstyle circa “Nine to Five.”

 

You all treat me like an expendable here and it gives me no incentive to do more than you ask me, but do you know the other reason I don’t take initiative, Boss? It’s because you’re a batshit crazy control freak. You complain incessantly that you’re swamped and you’ll never get caught up and you don’t have time to worry about little stuff that we can handle. And yet? When I ask if there’s something I can help with, you tell me no – you have to handle it. Then, in the next breath you’re at my desk wondering what I’m working on and criticizing how I do everything even though you were on vacation four times in the past 3 months and couldn’t figure out how to do the rest of our jobs if you were given an instruction manual and a fairy god mother.  Why bother to take initiative to do anything when I’m going to be second guessed by not one, but two other people who spent so much time supervising that they could have done it themselves.

 

 

My dearest Tenants!

Most of you are pretty decent as far as tenants go. This has actually been a pretty good year, a handful of people and their parents excepted. But some of you are raging sociopaths. The things that you say about me or other people in the office in your pitiful attempts to appeal to whomever you perceive to be in a position of power is ridiculous. Sadly, I can’t trust most of you any further than I can drop kick you and give how thick skulled some of you are, I’m afraid of breaking any more toes. That doesn’t stop you from claiming that I promised you something that has never been done in the history of this company, or claiming that you talked to someone that doesn’t work here. You will even be so bold as to cite conversations that you had with me on days that I’ve actually been out sick or on vacation. That’s why I put everything in writing. You can say it happened until you’re blue in the face, but if it isn’t in writing, there’s a 99.9% chance that it’s the kind of terrible fiction that only the Stephanie Meyers of the world can get away with.

I would ask, “How stupid do you think we are?” but you, Boss, will automatically assume that everything they say is gospel and that I’m the one in the wrong. And this? This is why you can’t get a “secretary” to stick around for more than 6 months.

 

This company is the reason that so many people defecate on their employer’s desk by way of resignation and I’ve talked to your previous employees – I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that it’s been done before. Lucky you – I’m literally too anal retentive for that approach, and even when I’ve really hated an employer, I’ve never been vindictive. I’ve stuck around long after everyone else would have blown this popsicle stand out of a misplaced sense of responsibility and the work ethic you are convinced that I don’t possess. But rest assured that while I won’t take a dump on your chair when I leave, and I will be leaving, I do give a crap just enough to make sure that the karma bus mows you down like a jet powered lawn mower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

3 comments

  1. Valerie

    I used to work at a place much like yours. My boss was a nutmeg bipolar control freak. I watched people quit within a few days of starting.

    The best was this one girl who rubbed his salad fork and phone on her herpe out broken vagina while he was in the bathroom. He was mysteriously sick the following week.

    You can do much better than this stupid job.

    Hugs!

    Valerie
    Valerie recently posted..I’m an AUNTIE… Again. Because, I’m apparently AWESOME at it! DUH!!!My Profile

    1. Valerie

      Nut job. Not nutmeg. I don’t even know if he liked the stuff
      Valerie recently posted..I’m an AUNTIE… Again. Because, I’m apparently AWESOME at it! DUH!!!My Profile

  2. Emma

    Might be time to leave…

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