Monthly Archive for April, 2005

when you diss me they just bounce off like bullets do fifty

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on 19 April 2005
in Correspondence, Life in the Cube and Vintage Imports
. Closed

Having a “beef:”  it seems like the hip thing to do these days, so I figured I’d better start one of my own.

My Target: Glamour Magazine. They have an article this month that really just burns my toast.  How would I know what’s in this month’s issue, you ask?  Do I actually read that lousy rag?  Well, don’t worry.  I haff vays.

This month’s ass-chapper is entitled “Talk Back to Your Credit Card Company.”  Oh, no,  they didn’t, you insist.  But oh, yes, they did.  Citing this guy, clearly a top-shelf asshat,  they advise readers to bargain for lower rates and to “let the customer reps know how much you’ve spent–and repaid–over the last year.”  LIKE WE CARE, people.

UPDATE: Also, we can already see that information.  It’s there, right in front of our bloated, bloodshot faces.  So, like, CONGRATULATIONS on learning how to read your statement, nimrod, but, still, DON’T CARE.

They also advise people to ask to speak to supervisors, threaten to move their outstanding balances to another company, and a whole bunch of other tactics that won’t work on our over-worked and cold-as-ice hearts, hardened by many moons of disappointment and misadventure working in the customer service industry.

Setting it Straight: The thing is, Glamour, we only offer one rate.  ONE RATE.  All our people get that rate, no matter how much whining and kvetching and bitching they engage in.  The only result of all that complaining will be this:  The reps they speak to–as well as all subsequent supervisors and managers–will simply leave remarks on their account describing the conversation.  Next time they call, the next rep will get a chance to read all about how they are “rude,” “demanding,” “don’t understand our policies,” and “won’t listen to reason.”  This can’t go anywhere good, I promise.

So Glamour, please consider this official notice of our beef. If you come rolling up in my hood, well, alls I’m saying is, you might not like what I bring your way.

if they take my stapler, i will set the building on fire

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on 15 April 2005
in Life in the Cube and Vintage Imports
. Closed

Have been moved and must share desk (alternating days) with some moron who posts baby pictures all over the cubicle, including on the goddamn computer monitor.

Hate being oppressed by baby pictures when biological clock is ticking, ticking, ticking into the deafening echo chamber of the office bullpen.

Have no Super Secret Spy Friends available to dismantle ticking biological timebomb by cutting the blue wire.  NO, THE BLUE WIRE!

Desk calendar is missing.  Just plain missing.  No one seems to care.

Too busy with last-minute tax filers trying to open last-minute Roth IRAs to be able to successfully launch Investigation of Missing Desk Calendar.

Work for bosses whose language skills could not combine to compose even one decent sentence.

Case in point:  Have just received email wherein square desk space was referred to as my “cubical.”  This is not a noun, folks.

Was told recently that, when faxing loan information to customer,  be sure to word things in clear, comprehensible sentences…

…by a fucking former student.

That’s it.  I am using up my personal leave this week, and when I go back, I am handing in a certain letter I wrote last month.

Open Letter to My Heartburn

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on 12 April 2005
in Cheese Sandwich, Correspondence and Food and Drink
. Closed

Dear Heartburn,

I have never met anyone like you before. Unlike any of my other suitors, your attempts to woo me never cease, even when I have made it painfully, embarrassingly clear that I want nothing more to do with you ever again. You come around here at all hours–when I wake, it’s your terrifying face that greets me; when I lie down to sleep, it’s your acrid, blazing lambency that radiates through my chest.

In dreams, I walk with you, Heartburn.

But really, you simply must stop stalking me. Does that restraining order mean nothing to you? I don’t want to have to call the cops again, but I will if I have to. You need to learn that this persistent behavior is simply inappropriate.

More than that, you’re just really fucking creepy. Fueled by a mysterious gas and Pabst Blue Ribbon, you’re starting to remind me unsettlingly of Frank Booth.

Heartburn, I bid you a chalky “adieu.” I don’t love you and I never have. I’m sorry, but this hurts me more than it hurts you, you know.

Now with added calcium,

Vague

memento mori

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on 3 April 2005
in Cheese Sandwich and Vintage Imports
. Closed

No this post is not about the Pope, nor is it about that bulemic cabbage-head whose name shall not appear here, lest it attract googlers of the wrong sort.  Rather, it is a post about a very important member of the Vague family.

He came to live with us when I was a surly twelve-year-old, around the same time we adopted a family of four cats.  He was a herder by nature, and he often gathered the kitties at dinner time, and tolerantly allowed them to sleep in a line against his belly–in spite of his obvious disdain for all things feline.

A giant, hairy, galumphing dog, Stanley had better manners than you or any of your kin, I promise.  He never jumped on a houseguest or sniffed anyone’s crotch, no matter how tempting. He remembered me, even in the years after I moved away and only came home each December.

He was huge enough to be threatening, in the right circumstance:  Stan valiantly guarded our house from girl scouts, door-to-door salesmen, ex-boyfriends, and Jehovah’s witnesses; never asking for much in return.

In his dotage, he became a bit persnickety, I’ll admit.  He liked cat food better than dog food, but perhaps that was a doggy “fuck you” to the cats in the house.  He became quickly addicted to those weird bacon treats, and followed my stepmother around relentlessly whining for them.  He developed diabetes, drank buckets of water, and had to be taken out at all hours of the night to pee.

None of us minded.

He was one of us.  His six-inch-long fuzzy white fur embedded itself into the navy blue sofa, as well as every black sweater any of us even thought about buying.  I’m fairly sure even now there is a bit of Stanley-fur in the winter coat I just shrugged onto the back of this chair.

But is it a coincidence that he bit the dog biscuit on the same day as the Pontiff?  I think not.  He was there for me when I officially became a non-practicing Catholic and did not get confirmed.  He never threatened me with eternal damnation for sneaking about with a condom in my pocket or a birth control patch squirreled up my sleeve.  He snuck outside with me at three am, graciously pretending he had to evacuate, while I snuck a cigarette in the garage.

Had Stanley been in charge of things, I’m sure there would be less AIDS in Africa.  Let’s face it, he was a dog, but he was one of my generation’s great leaders.