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I hate it.
As a means of distraction, I’ve taken to making a list in the notes on my phone. A critique list, so to speak, that includes all sorts of things for him to work on.
Critical? Yes.
A wee bit petty? Maybe.
But completely satisfying? Most definitely.
So far, my list includes the following:
1. Consider addressing employees by their names, you know, so you don’t sound like such a dick.
2. A smile never hurt anyone. And a smile while giving orders will make you seem less like the Terminator, Ah-nold.
3. Giving a compliment won’t actually kill you. Seriously. Try it. And even better, pepper it in between all of your fucking insults.
4. Skip the gym a few times a week, bro. Your firm ass and tight muscles are distracting your team’s focus. And, as we ALL know, you’re all about the focus. To the point of overbearing insanity.
5. For the love of God, switch colognes. It’s fucking annoying how good you smell…to your team. We all hate your delicious aroma.
Okay. So, the list is in its first-draft stage, but it doesn’t really matter.
I doubt he’ll ever see it, what with me having to actually die in order for him to climb over my dead body, but it’s at least keeping my mind and eyes occupied and my sexually repressed vagina in check.
“Where are the samples?” Trent asks, his voice stern and his steady, glare-y gaze directed at George. “There were supposed to be samples two days ago.”
George, the poor guy, flounders like a fish on dry land. “The…samples. Right. I’ll check, sir.”
Ole George might as well be a monkey sidekick to the Man with the Yellow Hat because all he has when it comes to these “samples” is curiosity. Floor samples, paint samples, fucking urine samples…the mysterious samples could basically be anything. And if I were George, I’d be incredibly tempted to prove my point in the worst possible way.
Lucky for everyone on this job, including me and my big fat impulsive mouth, I am not George.
But I am me. And because of my boss’s inability to be clear in his instructions, I have inspiration for item number six on my new list.
I open up my notes and add a new Trent Turner critique.
6. Be specific so people know what you’re talking about. On this team alone, we have two male construction workers who literally go by Dick and Beaver. And that doesn’t include lovely Carrie Balls who is assisting the painting team.
Shit gets real confusing real flipping quick if you don’t explain yourself.
“Greer,” Trent calls, and my eyes jerk up like a deer in the middle of the road.
“Huh?”
His face curls into impatience, and the rest of the crowd looks on wide-eyed. Apparently, he asked me a question I didn’t hear.
Mental note to self: pay better fucking attention instead of making notes about beavers and balls.
“I asked what you had in mind for the reception desk. We need to order materials by the end of this week at the latest.”
I’d make a note that he shouldn’t emphasize words with attitude, but I’m pretty sure I deserve it this time around.
Instead, I spout ideas for the reception area on the fly and hope they’re good.
“I think the front desk should mirror the look of a historic kitchen island. Black woodwork for the base with a light marble top and brass accents and maybe even some shelving with touches of the French Quarter behind. We can build drawers and cabinetry into the employee side to assure plenty of storage for supplies, but the look will be sleek and area appropriate from the outside.”
“What about the computer systems for check in?” Trent challenges. “Seems like that will look clunky on top of the streamlined counter.”
“We can do a lower tier on the hotel side if you’re worried about the look of everything on top. That would solve the problem, and from the front entrance, the reception area would stay consistent with clean and smooth lines.”
“Can you sketch something up for tomorrow?” he asks, and I’m nodding before he even finishes the question—despite the hours I know it will take me.
I’m committed to making a good impression with my work and work ethic, even if I can’t seem to take my foot out of my mouth.
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” he says, his voice devoid of disappointment for maybe the first time today.
I give myself a mental pat on the back and promise a cookie or two as a reward. In fact, maybe I’ll have that donut I bought at Easy Roast before I came into work this morning.
My purse is a Mary Poppins-style wormhole of varied goods, but I know it’s in there somewhere.
And it’s that inflated ego and misplaced food focus that get me in trouble. By the time I stop giving myself mental high fives and digging in my purse, the group has moved on, and I haven’t a clue where they went.
