Friday was unquestionably a day spent wondering why the hell I'm working for someone who thinks it's well within her rights to be practically screaming at me over the phone line because she's pissed that she has to pay a bill SHE AGREED TO PAY and that somehow it's become my responsibility to convey her extreme anger and disappointment and "don't-fuck-with-me" attitude to the sales manager instead of dealing with it herself.
Oh and just so we're clear? It isn't my fucking problem the flight you want to take this afternoon doesn't exist. Feel free to slam the phone shut in my ear because that will make the pretty little airplane fly just because you want it to. I know you're having a tough day because you've made mine absolutely miserable from the get-go this morning.
I am desperately trying to find my happy place, but all I can hear is Dolly Parton singing,
"Working nine-to-five, they've got you where they want you
There's a better life, and you dream about it, don't you?
It's a rich man's game, no matter what they call it,
And you spend your life puttin' money in his pocket!"
Someone suggested this weekend, "Hey, sounds like you're working for Miranda Priestley, y'know that boss in the "Devil Wears Prada"!
Yes it sort of does sound like that.
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