Misanthropaea

Invisible

In the 2008 film version of Get Smart, Steve Carell’s ill-fated first meeting with my secret girlfriend Anne Hathaway ends as a delivery man blithely rolls a two-wheel dolly, loaded with cases of Budweiser twelve packs, over Steve Carell’s right foot, prompting him to ask solemnly:  ‘Am I invisible?’

I feel like I’m living that scene every minute of my life lately. Except for the part where I don’t get to be totally shot down by Anne Hathaway…

People Suck

I am incredibly fucking sick of being judged as only the insufficient sum of my current circumstances.

A Little Whine, Perhaps?

So I get home from work at 10.46 pm on Thursday night and switch on the television, thinking I might check out the news before I climb in to bed and try to sleep because I have to open the store at 8.30 am tomorrow morning because Sloan Gay is a fucking douche who doesn’t know how to write a schedule. And there, to my horror, blaring and flashing at me like some cranked out white trash whore is this completely idiotic piece of shit called TMZ, which apparently stands for Turd-Munching Zeitgeist.  And I have to ask: Who the fuck are these people? How did these illiterate, incoherent twats get jobs as reporters—as fucking writers—with such breath-taking reports and hard-hitting journalism as:

‘So, like, uhm, down at the store and stuff, you know, there’s, like, the Octo-Mom, with, like, three of her kids and stuff, and she’s all, like, “Whoa!” and stuff and I’m going, like, “Dude…”’

What the fuck is that?

I’ve written better stories in the snow with my urine!

Jesus Christ!

And yet I still have a shitty retail job. What the fuck is wrong with this picture?

Dry Spell

It’s been an incredibly frustrating week, the details of which I shall no doubt share to some degree at a later time.

Being back in school, for the first time in many long years to  finish the degree I only got half-way through the first time round, has proved an interesting venture. I’m not quite sure how much I enjoy it. I have a film class in which I am almost exclusively the one active participant and my writing class has been largely focused on reading. Except this week.

We were given an assignment which, briefly, was supposed to be written from two or more viewpoints. Though I am not entirely certain how well I succeeded in crafting a tale from multiple characters, the assignment did one really amazing thing: It really helped solidify, along with the aforementioned irritations of the week, just how badly I want to move East.

If I could figure out how best to post this little turd I scribbled out for school, so that you might point and laugh, you would see – both of you – that I have a certain longing for living in New England. I like the idea of Salem, just because, but I’d be happy just about anywhere that had some history and culture and wasn’t dead in the armpit of the backwards-facing nowhere of the Mid-West.

For the fifteenth week in a row, my search for a new job has returned only Shift Leader at Dairy Queen or Assistant Manager at Pizza Hut.

I want to scream.

Woe To The Wicked

As both of you may or may not be aware, I have been in a fairly pitched battle with National City over my house. Yes, I’m one of the lucky ones you hear about on the news who lost their job (and basically everything else) and has been struggling to keep my home.

I won’t recap all the details, they are posted variously throughout this blog if you feel the need to be fully enlightened, but suffice it to say that National City haven’t exactly gone out of their way to play nice. Back in May, after playing Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You (and, no, not the song by Sugarloaf) with them through the month of April, I had finally managed to talk to a real person who explained to me the steps I would need to take to get things back under control. So, I sent them the required information and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Three weeks on I received a nice letter from National City’s  lawyer, a woman called Jennifer, who absolutely could barely contain her unmitigated enthusiasm for the opportunity to sue me blind and have me thrown into the street and who was quite thrilled to be seeing me burn in court.

At the end of May I called National City again. This time it was in response to someone who had cunningly crept up to my front door, placed a tag on my door knob, crept back to their running vehicle parked outside of my house, photographed my house from the secrecy of their vehicle (in broad daylight) and slowly drove away – all as I watched them from the giant five foot by seven foot window overlooking my front porch. The tag was a notice to call National City immediately. So I called, only to be told that I was behind in my mortgage and that if I intended to keep my property I would need to contact Loss Mitigation.

It felt like I was being run in a circle.

I contacted Loss Mitigation – again – and was told  it would be approximately 6 to 8 weeks for them to look over my information and decide how to modify my loan. In the meantime, their lawyer would continue with the foreclosure proceedings. But I needn’t worry: if the house were to go be put up for foreclosure auction, National City would try to expedite the modification.

Try.

How very thoughtful.

At the end of eight weeks, after another ‘clandestine’ visit to my front door with a little tag, I called again, to be told that it would be approximately 8 to 12 weeks before they could get round to looking at the paperwork, but thanks for the call and the continued interest in settling this matter. And, by the way, the legal team are quite excited to see you struggle and bleed. Have a great day.

Two weeks later I received a letter in the mail from the courts explaining that I am allowed the opportunity to sit down with my lender and work out a loan modification, just sign on the line—just here—and we’ll get this taken care of just as soon as you pop this back in the post. Funny, I thought that’s what all the loan modification paperwork I faxed in May was for…

Two week after that, I received a sizeable packet from Jennifer which laid out all the evil things I have done in the past seven years of home ownership – i.e. having missed two payments – and how I had better send in my answer to her complaint a.s.a.p. or she would see to it that I was crucified in a public centre as a warning to all current and future generations of homeowners not to ever fuck with National City.

I sent in my answer, filing it with the clerk of the courts in person – and oh what a joy-filled experience that little fieldtrip was. After I returned home, I called National City again in response to yet another tag on my door knob. The polite woman told me that I was behind on my mortgage and if I wanted to keep my home, I had better pay up right quick because the foreclosure was already in the works. I asked if I might speak with someone in Loss Mitigation. Once there, I was informed that it would probably be about 12 to 16 weeks before someone would be able to get round to going over the information I had submitted – you did submit your information, didn’t you? – but in the meantime National City would be pursing their rights against the property in the form of a foreclosure.

Oh. Really?

I exploded. I came absolutely un-fucking-glued. I was asked not to keep raising my voice. I told the English-As-A-Second-Language fuck that I had done everything that had been asked of me and yet, rather than see anything happen, I was taking a savage boning. I explained that I was through with the mental duress and the bullshit and wanted something done, considering we had be playing this singularly unfun game for almost five months.

And then I slammed the phone down.

A week later, in early August, I got a very nice booklet of my on-going evilness from young Jennifer along with her letter to the courts demanding that I be tried and found guilty and be flung thoughtlessly into the filth because I had not submitted an answer to her previous packet.  

Two days after that, a packet was sent to me through FedEx. It was the long-awaited Loan Modification agreement. I had to sign and have witnessed and notarised three separate copies and return two copies to National City within 7 days or the modified loan would be void.

I had everything finished and back to FedEx the next day.

That afternoon I received another love note from Jennifer in the form of something called a Request for Summary Judgement.

One week after that I received a notice from the Court that the meeting with National City would take place on Friday, 11 September 2009 at 4pm and we would put this whole silly business behind us.

I called the National City Mortgage Help Line, the number for which was provided in my Loan Modification paperwork (you know, if I had any questions, like why was I only given 7 days to respond to something that took National City 16 fucking weeks to figure out) and was told by the friendly recorded voice that someone would return my call in 24 to 48 hours.

72 hours later, I called the number again and left another message, even though they specifically ask you not to leave a duplicate message because it just delays the whole process of them figuring out how to pick up a telephone and call you back in a timely sort of manner.

48 hours after that, I got my return call. The man to whom I spoke voiced confusion as to why I would have to go to court to settle this matter: the Loan Modification was finished. I enquired of him as to whether or not National City had bothered to notify National City that National City had worked out the mortgage issue and so there was no need for National City to continue to pursue a legal case against me. He was not sure, but he could call me back within 24 to 48 hours with an answer.

I gnashed my teeth and kindly told him, ‘No. Thanks. Really.’

He assured me, though, that National City would be behind me, backing me up all the way if I had to go to court against National City.

I hung up.

And I drank some scotch. A nice smoky single malt.

That was a week ago.

Tonight, Wednesday night, when I returned home from my evening class, I found yet another letter from young Jennifer. It seems she has had second thoughts and has decided to beg the court’s forgiveness and asked to cancel both the legal battle and the meeting on 11 September as it appears the foreclosure has been withdrawn and a modified loan agreed to and because, it seems, I am not the vile  Hell-spawn she once believed I was.

Last week I had told Sloan Gay that I could not work Friday night – that I absolutely had to be off work by 3pm – because of my pending court date. He stared at the blank schedule with his typical sad disdain, as if I had placed the entire weight of the world quite squarely upon his drooping shoulders, and he sighed heavily.

Somehow, I don’t think I will be able to find the time in the next 24 to 48 hours to tell him that court has been cancelled. Besides, there is still quite a lot of scotch left which needs tending to…

Fatastic

nce upon a time, in a strange and far off place, I was a much thinner person than I am today. I wish I could pass this off to something like the adverse side-effects of childbirth but, unfortunately, that is not the case.  And if this were indeed so, I am reasonably certain there would be somewhat more serious issues involved than simply being overweight. And  there would probably be a Discovery Channel documentary airing some random times on a Sunday night.

No, this was entirely due to the two convivial and mirthful playmates of stress and anxiety coupled with a little bit of familial hypothyroidism which helped me go from the average ordinary nondescript person easily lost in a sea of other average ordinary nondescript people to, it seems, something now only visible and correctly imaged from satellites in geosynchronous orbit; images later to be orthographically rectified and administered through the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and which could possibly appear as anomalous features discovered on Google Earth and then hotly discussed and dissected on late night talk radio by George Noory and special guests like Richard C Hoagland, founder of  The Enterprise Mission, recipient of an Angstrom Medal, former science advisor to CBS News and Walter Cronkite, author of The Monuments of Mars, co-creator of the ‘Pioneer Plaque,’ originator of the ‘Europa Proposal,’ and principal investigator of The Enterprise Mission.

I have become, of late, the touchstone – the essential unit of volumetric standard – by which all girth is now judged: ‘He was big – bigger even than you ,’ is a commonly heard phrase, as is ‘Hey there, Hoss’ and ‘Excuse me, miss, is this still on sale?’

So I decided that I was sick of hearing about how supersized I apparently am and to do something about it. One problem, however, is that I am loathe to exercise. I freely admit it. Lying on a mat and repetitiously contorting myself is not high on my list of amusing and enjoyable daily events. Nor do I enjoy Pilates, mostly because I don’t have a magic circle and am forced to follow Debbie in the back because, like her, I don’t have the proper accoutrements. And Tony Little just needs to be put down. So does Richard Simmons.

Thus I began a search for a bike, because it is really the only form of exercise I really do enjoy and will deliberately make time for. I have an old Schwinn 10-speed but for the amount of money I needed to put into it to make it function properly I could just buy another bike. Many internet reviews and various virtual and real-world shopping excursions later, I opted to heed the advice of those who are far more knowledgeable and not get a Big Box Store bike because they are typically worth every penny of their $69 price tag and, instead, purchase a used bike from a bike store.

And this is what I found for $125: a used Outpost GT hard-tail 21-speed mountain bike with a lightweight aluminium frame,  Shimano gear system, shifters, and front- and rear derailleur, alloy wheels with quick-release hubs, new brake pads and cables – all perfectly tuned up, lubricated, polished and ready to go. Originally this would retail for somewhere in the neighbourhood of three to four hundred dollars, so I was okay with the price. When the man at the bike shop asked me how tall my child was – presumably because he wanted to adjust the seat height – I looked at him and told him, no, the bike was for me and that the seat height was perfectly fine. He frowned in a rather dour and sullen fashion, as if this was the last time he would see this bike in one piece. Yes clearly no-one the apparent equivalent size of a double-wide mobile home would ever want to ride a bicycle, you poncy little twat.  

Anyway… I’ve switched to a nearly all vegetarian diet, dramatically altered my eating habits, ridden the bike – yes, it’s still in one piece – as often as my current schedule of work and school allows and have managed to lose slightly more than a stone (not that anyone has noticed). We shall see how this progresses. In the meantime I continue in my staggering enormity for the benefit of all those in need of a reference point for all things fatastic…

From Hell...

Friday was an unbelievably shitty day. Everything that could possibly go wrong went wrong. Everything that could conceivably conspire to make the day as irritating and as unpleasant as possible threw itself before me, from ugly financial spectres that I've been trying to lay peacefully to rest, to endless run-arounds and stale-mates in trying to get back into classes after a twenty year hiatus, to idiot drivers and perpetual construction projects suckling and fattening on my tax dollars, right down to the minutia of trying to throw something away just inches from the bin only to have it miss completely and fall to the floor so that you are forced to try and pick it up only to discover that it will take five attempts and require you to crawl on your hands and knees. It was as if The Universe spread its mighty butt cheeks and summarily shat upon the entire day.    

And arriving at my thankless job to face another tedious eight hours of dealing with the utter worthlessness of Sloan Gay, Emalzo Homo, and Young Prince Jon The Prodigal - of being their Register Bitch so they could be free to do sweet fuck all - my very first customer is a Wine Snob: a rude and arrogant fuck swaggering like he is the gift of creation, a pompous twat with a sprayed on hair helmet and a pint of cheap cologne, pushing a cart-load of bargain wine.

Typical of the species, he first asks if I need to scan the bottles. No, douche nozzle, I'd prefer to crawl over the 30-inch deep counter and strain the limits of the laser scanner and my patience. When he finally starts unloading the wine, he of course piles them right in front of him - slightly more than an arm length away from me so that I still have to work harder than necessary to scan them. He enquires of each bottle as I slide them across the counter to scan, 'Is that 30% off? Did that one ring up right? This one's marked 15% off...' Yes, Your Majesty. Oh indeed, Your Highness. Me-sa so stoopid...

Just before I total everything, he hands me an advert, rent haphazardly from a newspaper and folded like a third-grade secret love note. He indicates to me, as though he is talking to a three year old as I unfold the paper and turn it right-way round, that he gets this price on Acme Brand Shite Wine. Oh, yes, I see. The staggering 1% override to save you 11 cents on your $352 purchase. You haughty fuck. 

Later, after I returned from carrying out the two cases of wine to his colossal black Hummer parked such that it took up two parking spaces, I stood at the counter fuming. I glanced down at the newspaper advert he left behind for me to throw away.  It was for Dribble & Whizz, my former employer. At the bottom of the page was a list of their stores and the managers for those stores. Staring back at me from the paper, listed as manager for one of the north district stores was the name...

Of Marky DeSade.

My former assistant manager.

They had the audacity to promote this obstinate, bovine, sexist, ignorant, illiterate pillock to a position of management!?

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!

No wonder I don't believe in god any more...

The Death of Customer Service

I came home from work on Saturday night to discover a letter from National City bank. In it was a returned cheque for my March house payment. The reason stated in the attached letter was that the payment was insufficient to reinstate my loan which was now in default.

Monday morning I called the number in the letter and asked the woman from Customer Counselling to whom I finally got to speak just how exactly I was in default. She explained to me that I am five months behind and therefore in default. To reinstate my loan they want $2200. Plus legal fees.

In September of last year I got a rude call from a rude woman from National City who told me that I was three months behind in my payments. Upon some research I discovered that, in February, when I was let go from Dribble & Whizz I missed a payment. For the first time in over seven years.  For the next four months I paid additional funds because I kept receiving letters in the mail stating that I owed them a specific amount (slightly higher than my normal payment) to which I obliged.  Somehow, and I do not know how, I then missed July's payment. Again I received a letter stating that I owed a specific sum, which I gladly paid because I realised my mistake.

So when I got the call in September, I asked the woman how I could be three months behind. She told me that I did not pay for the last three months. I explained that, yes, I had and had recently sent off September's payment as well. We rent round and round until I agreed that, if indeed I had missed three months then I would work something out. She told me what I would owe to become current and for the next four months I paid additional funds - with the caveat (as I explained to her) that, as I was still unemployed, I would not be able to come up with all the money she was demanding by the allocated time but that I would try my best.

As Yoda says, there is no try - only do or do not. I guess I did not.

Despite the fact that I paid close to double payments for three of the next four months, National City cannot account for the whereabouts of these additional funds. Therefore, with the returned March payment, I am now five months behind.

I told the Customer Counsellor on Monday that by the end of the week I could have $1000 and asked if we could arrange some payment for the remainder, explaining to her my current financial plight and the fact that I only recently began working again and have been surviving pay cheque to pay cheque. This, in the inestimable opinion of National City, was a laughable and unwieldy suggestion worthy only of their derision. Pay the full amount or lose the house. That's that. No compassion, no understanding - just lose the house because you are a piece of shit.

I asked why we could not do a loan modification - as I am eligible for many of the new assistance programmes put in place by the Federal government. I asked them why are they so anxious to take my house without even trying to assist - or counsel - me. I asked why, when I am explaining that I want to work this out and make good on the debt, they are simply slapping me in the face by not taking my money.

It was like talking to a wall.

At best she agreed to 'take time away from her job,' she said, and look at my payment history if I could fax her copies of all the cheques I'd written since November 2007. I thanked her for being kind enough to 'take time away from her job' to do her job and told her that I would have the copies to her by the end of the week.

Can you live in a public storage building? I mean they are called Self Storage...

That Cool Delicious Taste of Fuck You

The telephone rings just as I'm about to clock out and go home: 'Hey, buddy, how ya doin? I hear you're doin great at the nice store in the great neighbourhood! Hey, listen, remember when we mentioned to you that sweet juicy little slice of Heaven with a big dollop of whipped cream and a cherry? Well forget that! We've found the perfect venue for a man with your talents and abilities. How about a nice big warm, melty, wet, shit sandwich with all the fixins just oozin between your fingers? Something that just makes you want to cry as you choke it down and wish you were dead? Doesn't that sound terrific? And you can start tomorrow at eleven. Have a great night!'

Beyond Thunderdome

A great battle is waged over whom shall have the benefit of my services now the coffee house is closing its doors. Dribble & Whizz clearly lacked vision, not understanding what they had done in casting me adrift in February. They did not comprehend that their short-sighted tactics would one day create a flood of companies vying for my knowledge, abilities, and skills whilst simultaneously seeing their own quality of service diminish.

Two stores enter, one store leaves...

After the brutal savaging suffered in the economic downhill joyride, the coffee house will fade into bankrupt obscurity and, being inextricably financially linked to it, so generally will I.  And of the more than one hundred places to which I applied, only two contenders--perceiving that some fifteen years of management has prepared me well--have dared to take the field in a violent clash over which will win out.

Two stores enter, one store leaves... 

First to send an opening salvo was Gas Planet, shocked that Dribble & Whizz could ever have under-valued and devalued an employee of my experience, and one so clearly qualified for better things. They immediately leapt to offer me management, explaining that I would be well treated and well paid if only I would accept their lucrative offer. I said 'Yes.' And then came the silence.

Two stores enter, one store leaves...

The second contender, Liqu-O-Rama (one of the top competitors of Dribble & Whizz) immediate lunged in to fill the void. 'We need someone of your skills,' they explained. 'Sorry it took three months to call. Can't imagine what we were thinking.' They had me take a two hour written test, fill out papers, and then explained that they would look things over and get back to me within twenty-four hours.

Two stores enter, one store leaves...

Twenty-four hours went by in silence. Forty-eight. Seventy-two. Then the telephone rang. It was the District Manager of Gas Planet. 'Meet us at 11. We want to talk money.' So I drove thirty minutes across town in a torrential downpour and arrived at Gas Planet. 'Oh. Yeah. He's over at Wendy's. Go over there.' I raced to Wendy's. 'So...yeah...we haven't had a chance to check all three of your references yet. I know it's been almost a month. Sorry. Your drug test was clean though. How about if we start you out at much less than what you were making at Dribble & Whizz? Oh sure there's four times the work, but you understand. And you'll need to make a ninety minute drive twice a day to our training store. That won't be a problem, will it? Do you have any other references we can check? We'll get back to you in a day or so.'  I figured this must have been very important to them, otherwise why drag me across town in a rain storm for something that could have been done on the telephone?

Two stores enter, one store leaves...

Upon my return home, I called Liqu-O-Rama. 'Oh. Yeah. We forgot to call you. I haven't had a chance to finish figuring out where we want to place you. But I'll give you a call first thing Monday. Oh and if it's okay with you, we'll start you out at about $4 an hour less than what you were making before.'

Two stores enter, one store leaves...

Mid morning on Monday, Gas Planet called. 'We need to have you come out on Tuesday to go over some last minute details. At Wendy's.' Monday afternoon I called Liqu-O-Rama. 'Well,' they said, 'if you really want the Gas Planet job, we understand. But if you wait until Tuesday, we'll get back to you.'

Two stores enter, one store leaves...

Tuesday morning I arrived at Wendy's. And waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually the District Manager showed up: 'So... yeah... See we had an employee come back from maternity leave and we think we're going to give her the store we offered you. Are you interested in Assistant Manager? Well then go talk to Nikki tomorrow at one-thirty at the other store.'

Two stores enter, one store leaves...

Wednesday at 1.30 I went to see Nikki, a pencil-thin crack whore who appeared to be about two hundred years old and, when she wasn't puffing on a cigarette, spoke in the deep raspy tones of a professional wrestler: 'I don't know why he sent you here. I ain't got nothin but a part time cashier job for about seven dollars an hour.'  Ten minutes later I was in my car phoning Liqu-O-Rama. I got the answerphone. I left a message. Again.

Two stores enter, one store leaves...

Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday drifted by. I fought the urge to call back the Gas Planet DM and explain to him in absolutely no uncertain terms what I thought about the ignorant cuntrag running their 'other store' and what a slap in the face it was to be jerked round by a company that claimed to pride themselves on staffing their stores with exemplary employees of  the highest quality. In the meantime, late Sunday, Wal-Mart rang me. 'If you're still interested, we have a position open unloading trucks on second shift.'  I paused, then politely explained that I had applied (and was well qualified) for any number of the various management positions they currently had open and that unloading trucks was a monumental step down from what I have been doing for the better part of my working adult life.

Tw0 stores enter, one store leaves...

Monday afternoon my cell phone rang. It was Liqu-O-Rama. 'If you're still interested, we'd like to make you an offer. Can you stop by Tuesday morning about ten?' I arrived as scheduled and was lead through the corridors of power at their corporate offices. 'We have three stores that have individuals who are... under performing, let's say. We haven't decided where we want to send you yet, but after a week of training at one of our high-end stores, we'll let you know.'  I asked what three stores they had in mind.  'Well, one is a nice quiet little store very close to your house, one is a complete shit-hole about a twenty minute drive into the 'hood and you would be behind a big glass barrier, the other one makes the complete shit-hole look like a sweet juicy little slice of Heaven with a big dollop of whipped cream and a cherry. Doesn't that sound terrific?'  I paused, and then explained as politely as I could that, after having been robbed three times at gunpoint in complete shit-hole stores thanks to the lack of foresight of Dribble & Whizz, I would really prefer being put in the nice quiet store close to my house. 'Yeah. I figured you say that. We'll let you know after a week and a half at a really nice store, though.'

And so from Thundrdome, scarred and battered, does Liqu-O-Rama emerge victorious.

For now...