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Fucking SUVs; Fucking Hospital Day Shift
Jan. 7th, 2008 08:46 pmI don't like to say "I told you so"...well, actually yes I do. Show me the person who says they DON'T like to and I'll show you a big fat liar.
This past weekend I was hit by a motherfucking fat ass SUV. I was in the thru-way part of the parking lot in front of 24-Hour Fitness furthest from the building. (Let me insert a sidenote here about 24-Hour Fitness: why does everyone fight to park so close to the building? Wouldn't the extra walking time from your car just be a free little mini-warmup?) Anyway. I was on the main road part of the lot, if you will, when I saw this big gray Rav-4 approaching me from the side. She wasn't going fast, but she was also not stopping at the intersection where I clearly had the right of way. I lay on my horn and, unbelievably, she kept coming (though I'm not sure why "unbelievably" when you're as cynical as I am). Maybe she looked around to see the source of that annoying honking noise and skimmed right over me, since I wasn't eye level with her. She was going slowly enough to make me think that she might be about to stop, but too fast to react in time to the sluggish command from her brain to hit the brake.
*CRUNCH*
She pulled over immediately, profusely apologetic. I was furious until I saw that she had only inflicted a (large) scratch, not a dent. She went to retrieve her insurance information while I examined it and calmed down. It was really more the carelessness of another SUV driver than the actual damage that upset me. She came back and I told her to forget about it. Honestly, my car has enough scrapes, dings and missing paint (I consider it the most affordable deterrent to car thieves) that to go to a body shop and say "How much to fix this scratch here, no, not that one, just this one" seemed ludicrous. Sure, I could've got the whole fender fixed on her tab, but there's what's right and there's what's right, and my parents raised me to know the difference.
"Are you sure?" she asked in disbelief, "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes. Be more careful in the future." Preachy? Believe me, she got off light. Then, because my parents also raised me to be considerate, I asked, "Is your car okay?"
She looked at me with every inch of puzzlement such a question deserved. "If there's a problem, it's my fault so I'll deal with it." Right. I decided to get out of there before I offered to pay for her repairs, or perhaps buff them out myself.
Had I not just made a big sale on eBay (the shipping of which was my whole reason to be out of the house), this might have gone very differently, but I was riding a wave of monetary euphoria. Yes, it could have just as easily been a compact Toyota that hit me. But it wasn't, it was a fucking SUV. I told you so.
~*~
My anger at being hit was as nothing compared to what I experienced last weekend at the kennels. Friday night as I made my customary upstairs sweep, to my astonishment the back door swung open unlocked (I'm not sure why "astonishment" when you're as cynical as I am). The alarm was on at the time and the sirens started howling. Seconds later the monitoring company called to check on me, just like they do in the commercials. I commiserated with them briefly about what idiots my co-workers were (okay, all I said was that I didn't trust them to lock up properly, and the fact that we were even having a conversation supported my opinion) and they bade me a good night.
To say I was livid would be a staggering understatement. Frothing at the mouth, more like. Unfortunately the only person I could take my anger out on was Tery -- she won't let me talk to the day shift personally, even though I could absolutely guarantee that such a mistake would never, ever be made again when I was through with them. I guess she doesn't want me making her people cry.
Then Saturday night the doors were locked (hooray!) but the alarm wasn't set. These people have the attention span of chinchillas, I swear. How hard is it to lock the doors and set the alarm???? I called Tery again, twice as angry as the night before. She promised to take care of it on Monday. "DEFINITIVELY." I demanded.
On Tuesday she had me call her in late and I got one of her problem children, M. M. has a whole host of issues, most of them psychological, but Tery's biggest complaint about her is that she's too thorough. A simple call from a client asking a quote for vaccines stretches into a 30-minute affair in M.'s hands. She also spends entirely too much time doing everyone else's jobs rather than her own.
I delivered Tery's message briefly, but M. had her own agenda. "I heard about the door being unlocked this weekend. I completely understand the situation and how upset you must have been." I thanked her for being on my side, but there was more. "There was one night a few weeks ago when I happened to notice the gate out back wasn't locked. I made sure everyone realized how important it was to lock that gate." She was referring to the gate on the exercise yard, which is "locked" with a broken carabiner slipped through the latch. Again I thanked her, but added that I didn't consider the gate a very serious obstacle to anyone who really wanted to get in. Tery herself explained during my orientation it was really more to keep dogs in than people out.
"How about the flood lights? Would you like us to turn those on for you when we leave?" See what I mean about thorough? She's obviously given my plight a lot of thought. I told her that sure, I had a long wishlist of things that would be nice to have done, but at the BARE MINIMUM all I really want is the doors locked and the alarm set. I'm forever getting notes apologizing for a mess left for me. I want to say, "I don't care if the walls are smeared with shit. As long as the doors are locked and the alarm is set, I'm happy." I've learned the same lesson Tery's known for years: you have to choose your battles very wisely with these people, because they have the attention span of chinchillas.
~*~
This weekend sort of made up for it though. Saturday night I didn't have a single canine in the building. Not one. Three cats in Recovery, but when I realized I didn't have to unlock the back door all night, I felt a glorious freedom. Such freedom that I'm petitioning the governor to make this happen every night I work. Tery just rolls her eyes and says nothing.
This past weekend I was hit by a motherfucking fat ass SUV. I was in the thru-way part of the parking lot in front of 24-Hour Fitness furthest from the building. (Let me insert a sidenote here about 24-Hour Fitness: why does everyone fight to park so close to the building? Wouldn't the extra walking time from your car just be a free little mini-warmup?) Anyway. I was on the main road part of the lot, if you will, when I saw this big gray Rav-4 approaching me from the side. She wasn't going fast, but she was also not stopping at the intersection where I clearly had the right of way. I lay on my horn and, unbelievably, she kept coming (though I'm not sure why "unbelievably" when you're as cynical as I am). Maybe she looked around to see the source of that annoying honking noise and skimmed right over me, since I wasn't eye level with her. She was going slowly enough to make me think that she might be about to stop, but too fast to react in time to the sluggish command from her brain to hit the brake.
*CRUNCH*
She pulled over immediately, profusely apologetic. I was furious until I saw that she had only inflicted a (large) scratch, not a dent. She went to retrieve her insurance information while I examined it and calmed down. It was really more the carelessness of another SUV driver than the actual damage that upset me. She came back and I told her to forget about it. Honestly, my car has enough scrapes, dings and missing paint (I consider it the most affordable deterrent to car thieves) that to go to a body shop and say "How much to fix this scratch here, no, not that one, just this one" seemed ludicrous. Sure, I could've got the whole fender fixed on her tab, but there's what's right and there's what's right, and my parents raised me to know the difference.
"Are you sure?" she asked in disbelief, "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes. Be more careful in the future." Preachy? Believe me, she got off light. Then, because my parents also raised me to be considerate, I asked, "Is your car okay?"
She looked at me with every inch of puzzlement such a question deserved. "If there's a problem, it's my fault so I'll deal with it." Right. I decided to get out of there before I offered to pay for her repairs, or perhaps buff them out myself.
Had I not just made a big sale on eBay (the shipping of which was my whole reason to be out of the house), this might have gone very differently, but I was riding a wave of monetary euphoria. Yes, it could have just as easily been a compact Toyota that hit me. But it wasn't, it was a fucking SUV. I told you so.
~*~
My anger at being hit was as nothing compared to what I experienced last weekend at the kennels. Friday night as I made my customary upstairs sweep, to my astonishment the back door swung open unlocked (I'm not sure why "astonishment" when you're as cynical as I am). The alarm was on at the time and the sirens started howling. Seconds later the monitoring company called to check on me, just like they do in the commercials. I commiserated with them briefly about what idiots my co-workers were (okay, all I said was that I didn't trust them to lock up properly, and the fact that we were even having a conversation supported my opinion) and they bade me a good night.
To say I was livid would be a staggering understatement. Frothing at the mouth, more like. Unfortunately the only person I could take my anger out on was Tery -- she won't let me talk to the day shift personally, even though I could absolutely guarantee that such a mistake would never, ever be made again when I was through with them. I guess she doesn't want me making her people cry.
Then Saturday night the doors were locked (hooray!) but the alarm wasn't set. These people have the attention span of chinchillas, I swear. How hard is it to lock the doors and set the alarm???? I called Tery again, twice as angry as the night before. She promised to take care of it on Monday. "DEFINITIVELY." I demanded.
On Tuesday she had me call her in late and I got one of her problem children, M. M. has a whole host of issues, most of them psychological, but Tery's biggest complaint about her is that she's too thorough. A simple call from a client asking a quote for vaccines stretches into a 30-minute affair in M.'s hands. She also spends entirely too much time doing everyone else's jobs rather than her own.
I delivered Tery's message briefly, but M. had her own agenda. "I heard about the door being unlocked this weekend. I completely understand the situation and how upset you must have been." I thanked her for being on my side, but there was more. "There was one night a few weeks ago when I happened to notice the gate out back wasn't locked. I made sure everyone realized how important it was to lock that gate." She was referring to the gate on the exercise yard, which is "locked" with a broken carabiner slipped through the latch. Again I thanked her, but added that I didn't consider the gate a very serious obstacle to anyone who really wanted to get in. Tery herself explained during my orientation it was really more to keep dogs in than people out.
"How about the flood lights? Would you like us to turn those on for you when we leave?" See what I mean about thorough? She's obviously given my plight a lot of thought. I told her that sure, I had a long wishlist of things that would be nice to have done, but at the BARE MINIMUM all I really want is the doors locked and the alarm set. I'm forever getting notes apologizing for a mess left for me. I want to say, "I don't care if the walls are smeared with shit. As long as the doors are locked and the alarm is set, I'm happy." I've learned the same lesson Tery's known for years: you have to choose your battles very wisely with these people, because they have the attention span of chinchillas.
~*~
This weekend sort of made up for it though. Saturday night I didn't have a single canine in the building. Not one. Three cats in Recovery, but when I realized I didn't have to unlock the back door all night, I felt a glorious freedom. Such freedom that I'm petitioning the governor to make this happen every night I work. Tery just rolls her eyes and says nothing.
