30 Day Photo Challenge- Day 11

Something you hate. Seriously? This photo challenge was not made for me. I could go on about things I hate for HOURS a la Peter Griffin's What Really Grinds My Gears. For instance, the ridiculous girls who think the gym locker room in our office complex is an appropriate place to take their shits. Because no one is in the locker room to hear and smell that! Or my neighbors. Have a I mentioned lately that I hate my neighbors? Working in general isn't something I love but I don't know if I would say I hate it (can't actually. Not really in the mood to get fired for saying it again). That bitch on Twitter who called me a fug bitch and told me the falcons suck. I should put her picture on here and take a poll. How hold is this whore from Boston? I said 15 and she said Fuck you. Gotta me 16 then. What a potty mouth on that one. Or the old lady in the left lane yesterday making the turn onto Roswell Road at less than a mile an hour. Literally STOPPING then going an inch then stopping again. I honked and some asshat waiting at the red light to turn onto Glenridge yelled out his window to calm down. Shut the fuck up dickhead and mind your own business. If it was St. Patrick's day and you were stuck behind a handicapped woman who shouldn't be driving in the first place you'd be honking too. I guess maybe this has turned into a Friday Freakout. Also, I hate being broke. How's that for a hate? And mom's who post stupid shit on their facebook about their kids. I hate that more than I hate the political bullshit people seem to think I want to read. You are not an expert, nor could you do the job better you idiot.

I guess the thing that encompasses all my bitching is STUPIDITY.

Friday Freak Out

Anybody else hear that joke about the USPS not making money this past quarter?

No?

Click here for more details on that.

So apparently, USPS lost money because more people aren't sending shit. Things like the internet have made things more convenient. I have another idea about why people aren't sending shit...

How bout a complete and utter lack of customer service at their local locations?

In Atlanta, there are apparently stand alone mailboxes that the USPS "owns" in older apartments. Mine is in the building but still considered stand alone. The post office doesn't hold keys after someone moves, you have to pay them to rekey the lock. Want to see how easy it is to rekey a lock? Click here. I didn't discover that answer until after this whole ordeal but ANY-WAY.

In order to change the lock, you have to go to your local office or carrier hub and fill out a form. Then shell out $28 bucks. I was told it would take about 2 weeks but that since there were only two people ahead of me it would take less than that. I waited a week, no call. I called to check and was told this past Wednesday it would be done. Wednesday and Thursday came and went. Still no call.

So, today, I pick the phone up to find out if I can pick up the key on my way home from work. Cynthia, a real $^%#@, told me it's not done. Now, when I first called she interrupted me mid-sentence twice while I was explaining the situation. Then asked me for my address while I was talking and before I had a chance to answer she asked again. Impatience shimmered in her voice. I gave her the address. She left me on hold for 25 minutes. Comes back and tells me it's not done. I was clearly frustrated.

Why?

Well, one, I have a right to my fucking mail. Two, I have paychecks waiting in there. I ask why it's not done yet and when I can expect it to be done and she tells me he is on vacation. I ask why it wasn't told me to prior to today that he would be on vacation and she told me he wasn't on it when I made the request. I find it hard to believe that the asshole changing the lock was unaware that he was heading on vacation this week. And that his BOSSES were unaware as well. So I voice my frustration and she interrupts me to tell me I cannot speak to her this way. Now I may have raised my voice and octave but I wasn't cursing at her or blaming her. I was explaining a problem and asking for an explanation.

"Don't bring that mess on me when I'm trying to help you."

What? First, what the fuck is bringing that mess on you? Can you carry on an intelligent conversation without stupid accusations? Oh, this is helping me? You're I don't give a shit if you get your mail attitude is HELPING me? You're offering a solution to a problem? You're giving me something to make up for the fact that you promised a service and didn't deliver? Oh, wait no.

Before I can say anything else, CYNTHIA hangs up on me.

So I call back. Cynthia answers again and I explain to her she just hung up on me. She then LECTURES ME on my tone. I apologize that my frustration was so offputting to her but I'm having trouble understanding what is taking so long on getting this done. Meanwhile, Cynthia starts bitching to her coworker about me. Then says she'll take my number, look into this and call me back in an hour. Why does she need my number? Oh, my apartment isn't even on the list to be done at any point this month.

Does she call?

Of course not. I call again THREE HOURS later and am told by someone else that they don't have the list to see whose is done and whose is not but that the amount of locks they had to change last week was INSANE. Mr. Dawkins won't be back until Tuesday and he has the list.

Let's review:
1. I paid $28 for a new lock to be completed in 2 weeks or less. Google locks. See how much they cost. Actually just click here to find out you can get them for fucking $7 with two keys. $21 is simply for my two week wait and someone else to do what is a VERY easy project.
2. There were only two people ahead of me when I paid. Today there were hundreds of locks changed in the past two weeks.
3. They have a list. I'm on it to be done on Wednesday. I'm not on the list at all. Mr. Dawkins has the list, not them so they don't know when mine will be done. Get your fucking stories straight. Jesus.

You better believe I called the main number (800ASKUSPS) to file a complaint. I tried to Atlanta Consumer Affairs Office for USPS but no one answers that number (404.765.7702 in case you live in Atlanta and have a complaint). The people at the 800 number were so friendly (hi Greg and Jason) but other than that the women I spoke to at my local office were RUDE, UNCARING and UNWILLING to do their jobs. They tried to dance around the subject because they had no answer. They wasted my time and then tried to turn the entire ordeal around on me. Because somehow it is my fault that a 5 minute project has not been completed 2 weeks after I shelled out $28.

You know Obama's whole Keep America Working Initiative? How bout Georgia apply that money to the fucking USPS? Because god knows they could use some help improving their attitudes and service. Our local offices never have more than one person working the counter so you're there for an hour to send a damn 2 lb package. They are rude on the phone and in person. They overcharge for services and then take FOREVER to get them done. Clearly, they are short staffed and maybe hiring some people there will solve this issue.

FreakOut Friday

I know, I know…I’m doing this all wrong. It’s supposed to be Wednesday Wigout and Fun Friday or Fuck up Friday or something equally as entertaining and oh so fun. Unfortunately, in my world the stress level has hit epic proportions. There’s all kinds of personal shit going on in my life that will remain personal. I mean the public followers are pretty much my friends but I know there are some sneaky people who won’t admit to reading my blog so you don’t deserve to stalk me further. So, since Wednesday was Wedding Wednesday today shall become FreakOut Friday (obviously, it was the title of the post).

So, I’m hunting for a job (this blog I’m sure is not helping). It fucking blows (for instance that comment right there). Add in the fact that I have until August 8th to find a new place because I hate the hellhole I live in right now and my life is literally below shambles. It’s like BPs oil leak is in my apartment. I’m drowning in oil (I can’t wait for someone to jump on me for comparing my life to that of the BP Oil Spill. It’s not quite the same level- I get it. Back off). My days are consumed with work, overtime work, gym, applying for jobs I’m never going to get and emailing apartment complexes only to find out 700 square feet (usually less) is going for minimum $1000 in Atlanta. Seriously, the only thing worse than apartment hunting is job hunting and putting the two together is like the worst form of hell. Actually, the worst form of hell would be having to do all of this in a bathing suit surrounded by Victoria’s Secret models.

There are a lot of things standing in the way of me getting a job. The largest one being that I’m me…and not someone cooler, more edumacated, in the know, whatever.

• My resume BLOWS. You would think, me having been a recruiter, I would know how to write a damn good resume. Not so my friend. I used to joke around with people and say I got my job as a recruiter because I had a lot of trouble finding myself a job and no trouble finding others a job. That holds true to this day. It is hard to list everything you do in a day in an intelligent manner (log into work, check email, print claims, write blog, stuff envelopes, write another blog, print patient claims, read other peoples blogs, run mail, get coffee, gchat, write third blog, lab billing, read ny post, patient write offs, wash dishes, check facebook, bbm with Amanda, call patients, log out. Shit, I'm half way there!)
• My interviewing attire is ATROCIOUS. Actually so is my work attire in general.Here’s the issue, I dropped 22 lbs. But when I weighed a lot, I just squeezed my size 16 ass into the size 12. So obviously, now the size 12 is stretched to a 16 but I don’t fit in an actual size 12 either. I also don’t fit in a size 10. I’m pretty much fucked. And if I keep losing weight there is no reason to waste money on pants. I don’t care how rich I am, I will not waste money on clothing I LOVE to not be able to wear it at a later date. It’s stupid.
• I have a tattoo ON MY FOOT. There is no getting around this big ass saying that covers the entire top of my foot. Meaning that I cannot wear the one suit that fits me. It’s a skirt suit and not only is this tattoo unprofessional in general but also what if the person interviewing me has some creepy foot fetish? I don’t want to draw more attention to this entire ordeal.
• How do you tell someone why you were FIRED? If someone was fired from a job, as a recruiter, I refused to hire him (or her, being political correct sucks balls). Especially if the reason had something to do with their general attitude. Now, how the hell do I explain that I was fired because one day I had a terrible, no-good, very bad day which could entirely be attributed to work because I was leaving for vacation that day so I logged into facebook and typed the following “I hate my job. No joke.” I’ll explain more on this later. It’s a post in itself. Anyway, what kind of explanation do you give? And how do you make anyone realize you have learned from your stupid behavior?

This post is getting long (as is my freakout for that matter) so part dos will have to come at a later date. Wait for it. I mean I guess I could sum it up like this “Without a new job and better salary, I cannot get another apartment. The end.” Post posted. Bing bang boom.

The Ex Files...Part 3

Sorry to have been so MIA lately. I've been kind of stressed about this wedding I have to go to this weekend. Add in that in two and half weeks I run a half marathon in Boston (and apparently my family is coming to watch), sunday my life was literally in shambles, I'm trying to move, find a new job and work enough overtime to actually have a life and well...blogging as not been at the forefront of my mind. Plus, I keep starting these posts only to stall out and decide their crap and I'm not going to write them. (I bet you are all wondering about Sunday...bahahaha).

Anyway, I want to have a Friday Freakout because well, I have this wedding to go to and there are a couple of issues with it. The most obvious one being referenced in the title of the blog but we'll work our way to that one.

1. I am staying in a cabin I cannot afford. The hotel rooms for one night were $100+ so when a friend offered to book a group of us a cabin we all jumped on it. For the weekend it is $90 bucks. A steal, you're thinking. Until you factor in that will have to feed myself while I'm there. And apparently, we're going the epic night before party route so I've got to booze myself before as well. Bank account denies me these options.
2. While we are discussing the cabin, WHERE THE FUCK IS IT!?!?! Oh I don't know. Because the guy who organized this whole thing simply sends us a link to the resort it is in. No directions on where to go when we are in the resort. Do i have to check in? Do I proceed with or without caution? What is the cabin number? These are some things I'd like to know before driving BY MYSELF up there.
3. How about attire? This is a 7 pm wedding. Outdoors. Obviously, a nice dress is required. Especially when you meet the girl getting married who is so put together all the time it makes me feel frumpy even on my best day. So I had a dress I felt confident about but then no shoes. I finally find a pair of shoes that KILL with it...they cost fucking $80 (down from $200 people) at DSW!
4. The whopper of the whole thing, Ex will be at said wedding with new fiance. How the hell do I act around these two? Do I continue with my stellar avoidance techniques that are so obvious they make them both uncomfortable? Do I have just, like the BEST time EVER, and laugh to myself that he is witnessing all of my shenanigans? Or, do I behave like a mature fucking adult, walk my happy ass over there in my cute dress and fuck me heels and say hello to the two of them...maybe inquire politely about their own impending nuptials and wish them well in their future together? Not one of these sounds like something I want to do. Can't they just fall into a black hole for the weekend? I don't want to wish ill on anyone but for serious, could something bad enough to keep them from attending occur? On the other hand, that stupid bitchy, girly part of me wants to judge them from the perch of my perfect 4 inch pumps. Damnit I hate weddings.