The True Meaning of Christmas

Christmas is not about celebrating the birth of our savior.



It is not about a quiet contemplation of the year, or a celebration with friends and loved ones.



It's not the about the bustle, or the songs, or the foods that evoke history and home.



It's not even about running around unto exhaustion so that you can suffer through the racist, homophobic garbage spewed by your in-laws. Garbage that is interspersed with "Why don't we see more of you?" guilt trips that you are forced to endure without the sweet blessing of a cocktail.

No. Christmas is about none of those things. Instead? Christmas is about this:



Jason and I received this as a present. I, literally, don't know what to say. The generosity leaves me speechless.

Car Sales 301

Lessons In Selling Cars To People Who Hate You

1. If I contact you by email, it is because I don't want to talk to you. I don't really want to talk to anyone. I am a curmudgeon, and people annoy me.

If I have sent you an email with a fucking question in it, and did not include a phone number, you can rest assured it's not because I don't know how to fill out a phone. Answer the question. Make me hate you less, and I will call YOU. Promise. Kisses.

2. If I am talking to you, you better not be a complete moron. If I ask you a question, come up with an answer. Today, some idiot who finally annoyed me into calling him by not answering my question via e-mail, I finally broke down called him because I didn't think I wanted this car after all, and just wanted someone to answer some questions so I could be sure. When the figures he was giving me were much higher than his closest competitor--the same car, basically, by a different maker--I told him so. He proceeded to ask me what incentives the other manufacturer was offering.

Fuck. I don't know. I don't give a shit. I care about the end numbers, not the ones in the middle. I spend my workweek babysitting salespeople. Why the fuck am I going to do it for me. And besides, isn't it your job as a dancing sales monkey to know what you're closest competitors are offering.

I now have new insight as to why the domestic automakers are made of fail.

3. If I come into the dealer, I am not interested in having a big cock waving contest with you. I don't get off on negotiation. I don't get off on listening to your shit. Talking to you does not make me feel good. It's a shitty fucking chore. The BEST way to make me happy is to reduce the amount of time we have to spend together. I spend 40 hours a week with douchey salespeople yammering at me, I sure as hell don't want to spend my off hours around it. Let's just wrap this up so I can get to the bar.

4. And finally, most importantly, do NOT insult my intelligence. The tits are mere accessories, and do not negatively impact my higher faculties. I'm spending my precious free time and will soon be spending my hard-earned money. Don't jerk me around and dodge answers to my questions and expect I won't notice.

Tonight, I was standing in a dealership, having just finished test driving the last vehicle I was interested in. I enjoyed the drive, whatever that means, I let the salesman know that I was deciding between this car and one from their close competitor that is comparably priced. So, yes. Price. What will you sell me this car for, Mr. Man? Impress me.

So he goes off to do whatever it is that they do before they come back with a number. I assume he took a good, healthy dump. And he gives me a figure which I know was a bit high, but whatevs. Then he goes on about how the number can come down, based on inventory, etc, and that if I wanted to buy tonight he was sure he could a car much closer to their invoice price.

Hrm. Okay then. I'm not signing on a car tonight. BUT! I intend to make a choice this week. I am BUYING A CAR. So. What's the price? What is the price, you fine crapping, dancing, sales monkey man?

Well, it depends on inventory, volume, etc.

I look around the showroom. The Boy and I were the only beating hearts in the joint not on the payroll.

*cricket*cricket*cricket*

Thanks, for your time.

Maybe I should have mentioned to him that the internet guy said they had surfeit of that model. That they were working to move them, that he would beat any written deal I brought him. And that the fucking piece of shit he'd just brought me was a full $800 above what I knew those things sold for.

Nah. Fuck it.

Professional Literacy

So, in my work as a Pink Collar Wage Slave I have long labored under the delusion that no matter how frustrating and idiotic my co-workers and bosses behavior is, no matter how non-sensical their decisions and incomprehensible their thought processes, no matter how banal their conversation and shallow their thoughts, that at the very least they were all literate.

Nope.

Yesterday, my two supervisors showed up at my desk with a look of great seriousness on their faces.

"We have a question, and you always have the answer."

"Um, ok"

"So, we have a Report with result X. Do we need to order Common Industry Specific Product to go with it?

*blink*blink*blink*

"Nope."

"Wow. Thanks!"

Now, I did know the answer to that question right off the top of my head. But really? It's wasted brain space. Why? Because the Report says what, if anything, else you need to get to go with it. Says so right there. In English. Plainly written.

*sigh*

So, I think I get a by when I TOTALLY LOST MY SHIT on my boss because I refuse to complete the GODDAMN TPS REPORT FOR EACH AND EVERY FILE.

Ugh. Monday one of the managers is supposed to sit with me for three hours to observe how we do our job. He's been the boatswain on this ship of fools for the past year, and so far all I know about him is he swaggers and glandhands like a total ex-fratboy choad.

Monday goal? Don't get fired for Christmas.

Fourth Quarter Quotes

Good times of late at Corporate Happy Funjob. . . after several months of slowdown while we assessed where fuck we had gone off track, we're quickly finding ourselves back in the thick of it.

One would think that in the months when were all basically told to sit in a corner and think about ourselves, my co-workers might have learned a thing or two and stopped behaving like such incredible idiots. One, though, would be wrong. It's like they've saved up all their fuckery for the moment that they would have a chance to unleash it.

Part of it is, I know, that I support sales people who are mostly all bunged up because they have been earning less during the months that we've been grounded. I am, to some extent, sympathetic. At the same time, though, most of these mouth breathers make tens of thousands of dollars more a year than I do because. . . Fuck. I have no idea. They don't either. I guess because they sell stuff? I know more and work harder, and the only thing most of these people can do without the support of my peers and I is wipe their own asses.

Ah, the joys of pink collar wage slavery. Another happy accident of accidentally fulfilling at typical gendered job.

Either way, though, production is now ramping up with nary a backward glance at lessons learned. This has, as a result, led to some FANTASTIC conversations between me, my co-workers, and my boss.

Things I have actually said in the past few weeks:

To my boss:
"I hope that isn't going to be our '09 goal, because it if it is, I'm not signing it. I refuse to acknowledge as a goal something I believe to be impossible."

"I'm applying for everything available in the company that isn't actually a demotion."

"I'm tired of the all stick, no carrot performance management philosophy we've adopted"

"No, I didn't look at it. Because I've accepted that we actually cannot be successful, it didn't seem worth my while to see where I'd failed."


To my co-worker, who wanted something by end of year:
"Hahahahaha. No. Not going to happen. If you think someone else can get it done for you, then by all means, request someone else. But they can't do it either. Give it up, let it go, tell the customer."

To a different boss:
Me: "No. I can't stay late."
OtherBoss: "Why not?"
Me: "I'm sorry. I misspoke. I CAN stay late, but I'm not going to. I didn't create this problem, and I don't think it is fixable at 4:30 on a Friday."

I guess I should watch my mouth and be nicer, but frankly unless I walked into the director's office and whipped a tit into his face I don't think I could get fired. It's kind of how my company rolls. Not to mention I know more than anyone on my team including my boss. I know everyone is replaceable, especially in this economy. However, really? They're too fucking lazy, better to put up with the mouthy bitch who knows everything.

The Quest For Project Shitheap 3.0

Somewhere below "gynecological examination" and "root canal" on my List of Things I Enjoy is car shopping.

However, the Nissan? It is dead. Fuck that fucking car in its fucking carhole. I'm still pissed because I can't even come to a decision about how to get its carcass out from in front of my house. It is, theoretically, still worth money. I guess. But it needs work and I am sure as shit not investing another dime in it.

If it weren't so cold I'd go outside and hit it with a stick.

Anyway, so without the Nissan we have only Ophelia the Saturn. This is a great little car, however, it has over 156,000 miles on it. I'm WAY too big of a chickenshit for this to be our sole source of transportation. That means that we either move someplace warm and walkable, or I gird my loins and shop for cars. If we had a traditionally gendered distribution of labor Chez Nous, I could dump this particular shit chore on The Boy. Alas, though, that's not how we roll.

Fortunately, I have good and generous friends who are willing to help with their knowledge and encouragement. So far, I've only been moderately annoyed with dealership minions, and I have yet to truly want to call someone a motherfucker. I am, to my mind, doing ok.

My sort of unique perspective as a car buyer in the current economy does not escape me. I can't walk by a radio and not hear something about the proposed domestic auto bailout, and I really, really know why the domestic car companies are doing so poorly.

Even now, after all this time, the domestic automakers are building shit. Seriously, there are hardly any domestic cars that I can even convince myself to test drive, and the one that is remotely tempting is basically a Toyota. Seriously. I was looking at a used car online that had less than 15,000 miles and was priced almost 50% less than the new cars I'm looking at, and I still am not sure I want to even test drive the damn thing. If it were a used version of one of the imports I am looking at, it would probably already be in the fucking driveway. Detroit has finally managed to build cars so unappealing that they practically can't give them away.

I say that my car is just a tool, a toaster on wheels, but seriously? I would never buy a toaster that fucking ugly.

Yuletide Dread

I've decided that my ongoing not posting is really me just doing what I can to seize a little bit of control in world of chaos. Like the way a toddler or a Republican will regress and insist on a binkie or resume pooping his diapers when things don't go his way.

Whatever. Fine. Damn.

Thanksgiving welcomed the return of the holiday season last week. The holidays are always kind of fraught for me. On the one hand, you have food, booze, friends and tradition. Generally, I'm pro all of those things. On the other hand, you have the fact that it's cold; it's dead; dark at 5:00 pm; and my family is all giddybonkers batshit insane. Normally, I can deal with my immediate family's particularly flavorful crazy blend. However, chuck in a couple of hours with the broader circle of the people to whom I'm related by blood or by unfortunate matrimonial choice (not mine, obvy), and in the best of years I'm ready to just stay the hell at home and extract tinsel from my cat's ass rather than face any more goddamn cheer.

This year, however, I'm just...really...adverse to the shenanigans. I know what it is that has brought this all to a head, I have finally come to the point in my life where I have virtually no hesitation telling people what I think or what I feel. Unless I'm actually on the fucking clock, I no longer choose to suffer fools gladly. Hell, even at the office I've stopped gluing glitter and flowers to the shit I say to people. I. Just. Don't. Fucking. Care.

I would like very much to avoid the cousin et al entirely, and I'm sure that by her my presence would not be missed. My grandmother, however, feels differently. For Thanksgiving, I attempted to avoid the situation by visiting Grandma on Friday, but due to the fact that that branch of the family tree lives in a veritable white trash compound, my aunt AND my cousin and some largish percentage of the brood all showed up at one point or another.

The fact that The Boy did not leave me is a testament to his faithfulness and his good heart. I would have probably dumped me for sure.

Even when not present, the cousin and her problems were a constant presence. Grandma, who is old and has earned break, mostly worries in the way of the old who can do nothing to aver the crisis that 1. she knows is coming, and 2. she feels keenly on behalf of the individual too stupid to see it for herself. In this as in pretty much all things, my grandma gets a pass.

However my aunt and the cousin herself have finally managed after 32 years to work their way all the way around to my last nerve. I'm about ready to give them my speech entitled Embrace the Truth for no other reason than that I can no longer Tolerate the Bullshit.

By this time, there are certainly those among you who might be wondering what could be so bad about this cousin. The reasons, alas, are too numerous for me to want to go into tonight. Also, and I admit this freely, some of the car wreck would not trouble you the reader as they do me--the poor fucker who shares, I dunno, a quarter helix or something.