Sorry married man in a mini-van, but Scandal got you all messed up

And as adventures in Wonderland go, today was the first time I've ever had a customer be this stupid.

Mr. Miami Married man was sitting in the waiting area of Wonderland and all I did was offer him a cup of coffee. Next thing I know, he's asking if I'm married, if I have kids and all kinds of questions that have absolutely nothing to do with the product sold at Wonderland.

He said he didn't come to buy anything. Was getting something fixed on a product he'd already purchased. He goes on to say that he's married with four kids. Great. Good. I'm looking for a manager or somebody to call me to do an inane task. Nope.

His product is ready. He asked for a business card. This was the first time that I regretted having my cell phone number on that thing.

Here comes the text messages:

Him: Hey beautiful. Pleasure meeting you.
Me: You as well. Hope you have a great rest of your weekend. (Trying to keep it professional!)
Him: Looking forward to seeing you again. Let me know if you would enjoy that.

Now, I love Scandal. But never in my life have I wanted that fiction to become my reality. And let's be real, there was nothing attractive about you and the fact that you're a bartender on a side of town that I never ever hang out on means I won't see you unless you bring your product back in here. Hopefully, you'll bring your wife too.

I'm doing my job, why are you worried about it?

I do my job at Wonderland, even if I don't like it.
Would I rather be writing, hell yes.

But today was one of those Fridays where I said, I'm going to work to work. I'm not going to let the little rats called coworkers bother me today.

I put on my suit and tie —cause I can rock a suit and tie just like JT when I want to — came in and hit the phones.

So, I got a customer to come in and pick up a product. I get the product ready and Little Bookman is skulking around. He asked the manager if I'm selling that product. WTF do you think?

Then, I'm talking to my manager about another customer and who comes to stand at the door, needing nothing, just being nosy? You got it, Mr. Poodle. If these stupid sacks of skin spent more time doing their jobs, they wouldn't have to worry about what I'm doing and why I'm a big bag of awesome and they are not!

Could it be? I have a real life hater

Some times it pays to be nice. I was nice today and found out Mr. Poodle is a real life hater —and I'm not even Obama.

While I may hate Wonderland, I do my work. And I work on my laptop.

Mr. Poodle to the manager that I'm sitting over here writing about. Nah, fool I'm blogging about the lot of you. You lazy, deranged smelly bastard.

See, Mr. Poodle has a laptop as well, he sits on Facebook all day, calls himself publishing a magazine that NO ONE has ever seen and he doesn't do his work. This fuck-face is old enough to be my daddy or Jody.

The old me would drop super glue in his seat accidentally on purpose. But, I'm just going to hit him with some flea powder.

Really? The Wonderland blood drive

So, they're trying to do a good thing at Wonderland today. There's this blood drive.
Yay. Let's save some lives.

However, I can't and don't understand why Ms. Blondie walked in the door and asked, do I sign in with you. Clearly there is huge man in all red sitting at a table with a bunch of blood drive information on it. I'm sitting in front of a computer.
I have on all black because I'm in mourning since I still work here.

I'm not in the mood for this.

There's a sign at work that says excuses are for losers

Then my managers must be the biggest losers in America.

All I hear are excuses and see the finger pointed at me.

Here's a finger:

Sing it 2Pac! 

You know that one co-worker . . .

• You know that one co-worker you'd rather hit with a brick than say hello to
• You know that one co-worker who you smell before you see
• You know that one co-worker who has been doing your job for a shorter time than you but knows every damn thing
• You know that one co-worker who's breath smells like he ate a diarrhea sandwich with a side of shit fries. 

It's too early for this. And by the way, Happy Saturday. 

Oh, but I'm wrong?

In Wonderland, you're supposed to smile and nod. Be happy when you've been pissed for months because you've been lied to by management, you work hard and people who don't do a damned thing gets rewards.

Sometimes you snap.

Sometimes was today.

I was having a conversation with a manager and Little Bookman gets all up in the middle of it. Bruh, no one is talking to you.  Seriously, I haven't said more than two words to you since July. Shut the hell up!

So, my manager said the words that a pissed off woman loves to hear: angry, black woman. Then Bookman laughed and hell was unleashed. Turned to Bookman and said: "Wasn't Nobody Talking to you!" 

And I know, this was horrible grammar, syntax and the like. 

So the manager tells me to come here, as if I was his teenaged daughter. 

I replied, "I am not your child and you won't talk to me as such!" Grammar back in tact. Then I walked into Wonderland and packed my shit. 

I didn't quit. 

Unfortunately, I'll be there in the morning. 

Work place nightmares?

We've all had that one job. Let me tell you about the few months I spent in call center hell.
There's this place in South Charlotte called iQor.

What is iQor, you ask? The ghetto of call centers. And I don't use the term ghetto often, but this is one time where it FITS.

Located in the headquarters of a national department store, people who work for the "blue" company shiver when they see the iQor employees come their way. As a matter of fact, day one of training, my class was told the story of a chick who was fired for stealing bacon from the cafeteria. Bacon. Hidden. In. Grits. Job gone.

One day, we went out on the floor — as a part of training to see what the job would be. Two employees tweaked down the middle of the aisle. Why was I here? Oh, yeah, my unemployment ran out.

OK. It's just a job. I have a career. And I had an interview in my field. So, we got into the actual job after training was over. 

All of that stuff you learned in training was a waste of time because it was all wrong. 

I'm not going to say everyone who worked there was crazy, but 95 percent of them, including the Supervisors were. 

Case in point, a supervisor and an employee had a conversation on the floor, while people were on the phone trying to get folks to pay their light bills, about the employee's plans to get her girlfriend pregnant with her baby daddy's sperm and a turkey baster. 

Yeah. 

But the coupe de merde came when a white woman —who thought by the insertion of her baby daddy's black penis gave her some special entrée in to the black race asked one day, why couldn't she say the N-word. 

I told myself to keep quiet. 

Myself didn't listen. 

"Brittney, why don't you go home and say the N-word."

"I can say what I want."

"You say it in here, you won't say it again."

Here comes the Supervisor telling everyone to be quiet as if this was Mrs. Carmen's Day Care center. I looked at this black woman and said, "You need to tell her to shut up."

Her reply, "Cheris, I'm talking to you too."

"You need to tell that girl she needs to watch her mouth because she has one time to drop the N-word."

Then some other folks got up and loud. And what does Brittney do? She starts crying. But still popping that yang about she can say what she wants. 

I quit a week later. Then I started at Wonderland. . .From Shit to shitter. 

Tell me about your work place nightmares in the comments below. 

Shady boots: Mr. Poodle has messed up now

Part of my function at Wonderland is to call and email people so that they will buy the product(s) we sell.

I like to email people, because it's quasi-writing. We're not always busy, but this past Labor Day we were. So, a couple I'd been communicating with for about eight months came in to finally buy their item. Yay me.

While I was working with them, Mr. Poodle scampers over looking like the rat from Harry Potter, talking about I had guests. Who are they, I asked.
He points to this lady. A lady I've never seen in my life. I asked what was her name and he kept pointing like a broken Kewpie doll.

Really, jerk face? One, I'm busy. Two, how about getting some information before you talk to me! 

I go over to the lady, she was supposed to come see me the next day. Mr. Poodle proceeds to take over. Did I tell you that I've been talking to this lady for two months. 

And then, this fool is supposed to be sick. But as soon as these people say they're coming in to get their product, he hopes out of the flea bag doghouse where he was — OK, I don't know where the poodle was, but he wasn't in the hospital. 

But guess what. He only gets half of the money. BLAM! That's what happens when you're Shady Boots! 

I really don't care for any of y'all

Once upon a time, I worked in a place where I actually liked my coworkers and my boss. We'd have lunch together, we'd hang out after work and they all supported my dream of becoming a published author. And by support, I mean they bought my books.

Thinking the grass was greener on the other side of the highway, I left that job. I did it for the money and for three years, I was happy as a lark. Then my boss left and all hell broke loose. A new guy was hired, the company went bankrupt and I found myself unemployed.

That would've been awesome if I had money rolling in from books every week. And I have to admit, maybe I've grown accustom to a steady paycheck and that's what is keeping me from doing the full-time author thing.

And, I need health insurance. OK. But I digress.

So, after a year of unemployment and a job in the call center from hell. iQor — yeah, I said it!
I started at Wonderland. Since I'm still employed there, I can't name the place, yet.
Here's a typical day there.

First, you walk in the door and you smile at the customers. Then you're hit with some stupid question or comment.
Example: Is that your natural hair color?

WHAT DO YOU THINK?
Another stupid question: Can I touch your hair?
Really?

Moving on from the customers, let me tell you about the cast of clowns I work with.

1. Little Bookman.
Dude is 25 and has done more in the Army than my dad did in his 30 plus year career. He's a ranger, he's in military intelligence, he's with the CIA, FBI, NYPD, and most importantly, the L.I.A.R.S. Club.
We were cool until his true colors came shining through. Like, he lied about being my frat brother. . .WHO DOES THAT?

2. Mr. Know it All
Here we have a 21 year old who has been doing this job for seven months and is already thinking he should be a manager. Manage these, dude. Really? When he's not selling, he whines and pouts like a petulant child who's never gotten his ass whipped. I'm talking with a Hot Wheels track type of whipping. Then he complains when he has to help some one, but expects others to bow down and show him how to keep the shit tracks out of his drawers —but he never says thank you.
3. Mr. Irrelevant
This guy just started working in Wonderland and he walks around talking about the most inane stuff in the world. Who cares about a 1983 Bentley when the game is on. Sir. Why. Are.You. Talking. To. ME?
And then he's one of those creepy guys who has to lean in to talk to you. Bruh! I'm going to need about 18 feet of personal space.
4. Mr. Poodle Man
This gentleman has allegedly been in the business for 20 years. But he doesn't know how to do this job. And he is supposed to be some publisher of a magazine, which I've never heard of or seen. But everyone around Wonderland knows he has pictures of half naked women in his iPhone 4. Yes, 4. Not even a 4s.
And no one seems to realize — but me —that he smells like a sick poodle.

I really don't care for anyone of them.

Old Spice and Obama haters

There are two type of people who shop at Wonderland. Men who bathe in Old Spice and Obama haters.

I understand everyone isn't going to love the President. But some of the Old Spice Obama Haters blame this man for their bouts with gout. But were you in the Armed Forces? Nah. Did you sign up for Obamacare? Nah. And you haven't been to the doctor? Nah. Why are you mad, son?

And what's crazy is, my coworkers in Wonderland engage in conversations with the loony toons, revealing that if we didn't have uniforms, they'd probably wear sheets to work.

Revising my resume as I type.
Later, my manager is watching.