hook.

30Jul09

Hell of a past couple of weeks. I feel like I’m on autopilot, even after I slept I wasn’t rested. Welcome to the ‘real world’ right? Speaking of, those jerks never called me back. They clearly don’t know who I am or what they are missing on the show without me.

Work has been quiet the thrill ride for the past few days, and by thrill ride I mean make me want to bleed out at my desk. First of all, Bertha (not her real name, obviously) is a conniving twit. She specifically said to three interns, myself included that (because we are unpaid) that we would be reimbursed for our gas money (because we run out on pointless errands that could be taken care of with that new-fangled post office thinger). Anyway, so Tuesday after I drove myself across town she calls me to tell me to come back to the office, I have a new project. I’m sure you can imagine my excitement; I’ll give you a moment.

So, then I get there and I find out Bertha wasn’t even supposed to send me on the errand in the first place. I wasted $5 in gas, oh, for Bertha’s fun. I tried to let out all the steam in the ladies’ restroom but I wasn’t exactly a happy camper for the rest of the day. Then the effing printer won’t print. It’s like, Hi! You’re a printer. You have one function, thanks.

So instead of helping me fix the problem, Bertha (who is supposed to be an office assistant and a self-proclaimed ‘Excel Pro’) tries to break down all the tools on excel and speak to me like I’m The Other Sister. Does it say ‘SPECIAL’ on my forehead? Girl with a normal intelligence level at your 12-o’clock, Berty. Come to find out it’s the printers fault, not mine. So I ask Clark (still not a real name) if he’ll print it for me like he did the first time. He says, “Sure, but when I get out of the meeting.” I say, “Cool.” Meanwhile, the meeting is like 5 feet from where my desk is and when all’s quiet I hear him complaining that I asked him to print on the ‘big printer’ and how I should know how to print a document and something along the lines of ‘My name is Clark, I’m a huge douche’ (he said it, not me). Again, do I drool on myself, or something when everyone’s looking? Listen, Clark. I know how to freaking print something, thanks. Your ‘big printer’ has a password that ONLY YOU KNOW because YOU SET IT UP.

At this point I’m pretty fired up. I know I’m an intern and that involves a lot of busy work, however intern does not equal office bitch, scapegoat or any other excuse one would need to not effectively do ones job. In other words, DON’T BLAME ME WHEN YOU EFF UP! I know how to type, speak, use most programs on most computers; I can even walk upright. I don’t need you to hold my hand, or wipe my butt when I go to the bathroom. If you make a mistake, take responsibility. It takes more effort for you to lie than it does for you to say, ‘oops, I’ll fix it.’

Gosh that’s been bothering me! On a brighter note, we did the September fashion shoot at the Fire Station No. 5 yesterday. The two firemen who were there were so polite and friendly (they called me ma’am the entire time). But I have to say I was a little disappointed upon arriving. Excuse me, I’m here for the Oklahoma Magazine fashion shoot, and I’d like to know where all the shirtless firemen are? Preferably non-married, if you can swing it. Also, why aren’t they all out on the lawn playing football? Why aren’t you cooking a huge pot of spaghetti and where the HELL is your Dalmatian? Do you even have fire trucks and a working fire pole? At least I got the last two.

Warning: Fire stations are not like the movies. (Shut up.)

Speaking of poles, my brother and I totally met a hooker Tuesday night. We come out of the movie theater (after FINALLY seeing Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince) and saw this woman walking rather provocatively beside an old firebird. The follow is the exchange:

Me – Ohmygoddd, Ry, look! She is totally a hooker.

Ryan – Sweet.

Hooker – NO! HELL NO! You don’t wanna gimme a ride so just go on!

Driver – can’t hear him but I’m sure he said “SEE YA!” and then he drove away.

Hooker – (keeps walking, crosses the crosswalk right as we are)

Me – Shit. Shit. Shit. Pleeeease don’t talk to us. (Under my breath, duh.)

Hooker – Hey guys, um I just got stranded (No you didn’t? You walked off from that car?) Do you know of any place that’s still open so I can get my homegirl to come pick me up?

Me – Um, yeah. The movie theater is still open. We just came out. (Insert sigh of relief that she wasn’t asking Ryan and I to take her anywhere here.)

Hooker – K thanks.

As she walked away, you know I focused on her attire. VERY low cut top accompanied by shoes only meant for Playboy photo shoots and a denim skirt that my 5-year-old cousin probably owns, too. Ryan just cracked up and we thought of all the excuses we would have made had she asked us for a ride. S-C-A-R-Y. I don’t mean to judge, if you hook for a living, by all means, keep on keepin’ on. But, hookers scare me. Anyone who sees $20 and gets … excited scares me.

On the other hand, if it meant I could get off work early, I might look into hooking for gas money myself. Kidding. Kinda.

Filed under: Internship   |  2 Comments
Tags: harry potter, hookers, Internship, photo shoot