Okay, so while I was at work someone called my cell phone and didn’t leave a message. At my job we’re not allowed to bring cell phones into the building but I had went out to my car to get something and I saw that I had a missed call. Because I had been making business calls, I just wanted to make sure that it wasn’t someone returning my phone call. So I called the number back, “Hello, someone called me from this number earlier this morning…”
The lady who answered was astonishingly rude. “Uh, no.” Wrong numbers do happen and usually I’d be like, okay bye. But because she was especially nasty for no reason, I said, “Oh, well, I guess there must be some brilliant scientific explanation as to how your phone number just randomly showed up on my caller ID,” and I hung up.
This is actually the second time in three weeks that someone dialled my number mistakenly, and I’ve called back only for the person to tell me that nobody called me. Why can’t people just say, “Oh, I must have dialled the wrong number,” because seriously, who just randomly calls people like, “Yeah, did you call me?” I must have gotten your number from somewhere, and it’s obvious that I’m not a solicitor or a bill collecter because I don’t start out with, “Hi, can I speak to the lady of the house!”
It’s obvious that people do not get enough love in their life and must treat everybody else like shit in order to make themselves feel better.
Feelings of Inadequacy
Okay, so like three days ago I was driving home from wherever, and I approached a stop light around the corner from my house. It’s a three lane street. There was a sparkling, shiny red Porsche in one lane, and then I pulled up. Like two seconds later some sparkling, brilliantly gold BMW, one of those two door coupes with the hard-top drop-top pulled up on the other side of me. Then like 4 seconds after that this guy on a very expensive motorcycle came up and kind of wedged his way in between me and the Porsche. I know that shit was expensive because I once knew a guy who wanted the bike and he told me that with all the options you could get on it, the bike could cost like $20000. Then like right before the light turned green, a big ass gleaming black Hummer pulled up right behind me.
So there I am next to a Porsche, a BMW, some expensive motorcycle and a Hummer, feeling like my broke ass, dirty Hyundai is nothing more than a Huffy with a busted wheel. Then the light turns green and ALL cars, including the Hummer that was behind me flew off and left me in their exhaust, sadly singing, “Oh, Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz… My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.”
Sad, so sad.
Tried, but True
Why do people feel like they need to try me? I think women do it to each other unconsciously, like we are always trying to test other hoes to see where they stand in comparison to us. And you know what, it don’t just be young broads. Old women do it too. So, at my job, there are about 10 of us that do the same job. We don’t necessarily work together, but because we do the same work sometimes we have to collaborate for our different offices. The lady that works for the office above mine (in the chain of command) talks to me like I am her red-headed stepchild. She is an older white woman and sometimes I get the impression that she thinks I am some field nigger and she is the foreman.
Please check yourself.
I came over to her desk to drop off a package and she was like, “You need to come pick up your mail!” Only she didn’t say in a normal voice, “There’s mail over there for you,” or “Can you please get your mail?” She yelled at me like she was yelling at a small child to pick up his toys. Okay, first of all, hoe, it wasn’t even my mail. I had already picked up the mail and she was looking at someone else’s stack. So get your facts straight before you start barking orders. Secondly, I’m not a beagle so watch your tone. She did it to me a couple of times before I had to take her politely to the side and let her know that the slave days are over and that she is not the Big Mama anymore.
The second hoe at my job that needs correcting: the spindly leg young white girl I used to work with. We no longer work for the same office and so I am very grateful not to have to be in her silly, giggling presence anymore. The type of environment we work in is EXTREMELY professional. Like, everybody in there takes everything very seriously. People walking around with stern faces all day long like they have to solve all of man’s problems by the end of the business day. Almost all of the men are either in suits or military uniforms. The women wear suits or other appropriate office attire.
Why does this chick come to work in capri pants, a hoodie and wedge flip flops? It’s not even casual Friday. But keep in mind, this is the same chick who told our boss that she got trashed with some gay guys at a Spice Girls concert.
So, we have a meeting once a week with all of us who do the same job. I pretty much wear some kind of dress or slacks/skirt and blouse to work. I wear heels but I do bring flats in case my feet start hurting or if I have to do a lot of walking around the building. I don’t wear flip flops. I don’t wear hoodies. I think the particular day in question I wore my typical uniform of a black skirt, some kind of black shirt with a wide belt but I had bought these really nice imitation Christian LeBoutain pumps. Of course, I know how to pull even the lowliest of imitation off and make it work.
This chick says, “Oh, look at you, all corporate girl.” Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know we were about to go get high under the bleachers at the high school pep rally. Because that is what she dresses like. She gets away with stuff like that because nobody ever says anything to her. They just pat her on the head like a misbehaving puppy and smile and say, “Aww, how cute.” There is nothing cute about wearing low-rise skinny jeans so tight that when you bend over everyone can see your lime green thong and tramp stamp.
And this is what I have to put up with everyday.
Stupid Is As Stupid Does
So, two weeks ago when Whitaker and I were waiting for the tattoo guy to come, there was another girl in the parlour with the other tattoo guy. She wanted to get the WAY overused praying hands with her grandmother’s name and dates of birth and death. Only, she could not remember the exact year her grandmother was born. So she was on the phone calling around to her family to ask when her grandmother was born.
While she was doing that, the tattoo guy was getting impatient. He was like, “Well, let me just do everything else but not the years.” The girl wanted it all done at one time because this was her first tattoo and she didn’t want to chicken out. The girl eventually gave up trying to get the correct year because everyone she called had a different year. Apparently the grandmother was very old, born sometime at the turn of the century.
I told the girl, “You don’t want to make a mistake and put the wrong year. You should wait, because it’ll cost you to get it fixed and then it might not look right.” The girl took my advice. The tattoo guy was still doing the drawing and he had asked her how to spell the grandmother’s name and she told him. She was like, “Well, I guess I’ll just come back later.”
The tattoo guy says, “Why don’t you just call your grandmother?”
Me, Whitaker and the girl was looking at him like… “Are you serious?”
He was like, “Then you can ask her what year she was born. She would know.” He even had the nerve to start laughing and looking at US like we were crazy and he had just came up with some brilliant solution. Then he started drawing again and drew in the numbers 2008, for the year that she had died. We’re all still looking at him like… Yeah….
The girl was like, “She’s dead.”
The tattoo guy was like, “Really?” And then he was like, “Oh yeah, I guess I did write R.I.P 2008.”
I believe the children are our future. Let them lead the way.