Monday, May 17, 2010
Let's auto-tune Stephen Hawking.
Wouldn't that be the best? I think so.
So this is what's new in my little life:
WORK IS CRAZY OK.
Well, not true. Less crazy. I guess I should explain what I do for a living since my profile is sort of vague. I work for a FOR profit company that sets up developmentally disabled adults in their own homes with roommates of similar dispositions and disabilities. Sounds good right? WRONG.
The thing about these guys and gals [or 'clients', as we're made to call them] is that the specific program they're in is protective. It protects them from being taken advantage of by shitheads in the community [again. Most of them have been horribly abused], but it also prevents them from taking advantage of anyone else in said community [also again. sigh.]. To make sure no hinky shit actually goes down, the company hires people like me to hang out with the clients in their homes all day. And night.
I essentially get paid to run interference, play video games, sit around, do my homework, and remind my clients to take their meds, shut the door when they masturbate and change their pants when they have an accident. It's good times. I get paid well over minimum wage to do this.
The bad side of the job is that it's not always easy, and sometimes it's downright scary. Some of the clients are extremely violent, angry and unpredictable. Because of this we have a high turnover rate. Those that do stick around are either good guys who want to make a difference [like me, gasp] or pieces of shit who want to do as little as possible and as a result make the job way harder than it should be for the rest of us. DRAMA.
I don't really have a boss, which is also cool. If I really fuck up I have to answer to the program director, but I'm awesome and that hasn't happened yet. Because I am big and masculine and he is small and metro I think he's generally afraid of me anyway. I could probably come to work drunk and in drag and not even get a call about it the next day.
Anyway, what each house DOES have is a 'head of household'. I secretly call them mother superiors even though most of them are men. The HoH is not my boss. All that title means is that they are directly responsible for managing the clients finances and medical crap. They do not manage me. They just make two dollars an hour more. Remember that I told you this, okay? Okay.
I work four days a week. On Thursday and Friday I work from 3-11pm, and on Saturday and Sunday I work from 7am-7pm. It rounds out to a nice even 40 a week and gives me three days off which is cool. Up until this week I worked at two different houses. The house I work on the weekends has a reputation for being really hard to work because the clients who lives there are notoriously verbally and physically abusive. The HoH there is my pal Juan [who I convinced to grow a mustache, rad]. Juan and I have worked together since forever, and have a great deal of respect for one another. It's a nice situation. Juan has not always been the HoH, though. He recently got the promotion, but refuses to get a big head. Also rad.
The house I work on thurs/fri is a fairly easy house, and the HoH situation is almost the same. This guy's name is, uh. Jameson. Yeah, Jameson. Jameson is from Nigeria, and he is crazy. He was promoted like four months ago, and since then he has turned into a giant cocksmear. He is convinced that he is my boss and I am a turd. We no longer get along. At all.
Last Thursday everyone who works at the weekend house had a meeting at the office. We have new schedules, yay! My new schedule is that I will not be working at Jameson's house anymore. Juan wants me full time, and he can have me. I made a joke about how it will just give me more time to stroke his mustache and him more time to stroke my beard and I think the program director got a boner. I mean something thumped up against the underside of the table.
So, yeah. The ladies in the office tell me, "Okay Dave, DON'T GO TO JAMESON'S HOUSE TODAY AT 3. GO TO JUAN'S."
I say, "Okay, fine. Sure."
So it seems weird to me, so I double check before I leave the office. They confirm. Again. So I go to Juan's instead of Jameson's, and after being there for about forty minutes Jameson calls me fucking PISSED. He proceeds to yell at me, belittle me, and be a fucking douche. Apparently I was supposed to go work there, and he's been WAITING. Oh no. I try to explain. He says I'm wrong. He wasn't in the meeting, but hey.
So I drive across town to his house [at the behest of Juan. I was prepared to do nothing] and he met me in the street in his own car, mafia style. He rolls down his window to yell at me. I made a few things clear with some choice words, and we almost resorted to fisticuffs.
I still have my job though.
In other news I planted flowers in front of the weekend house and it looks pretty.
PRETTY TOUGH BITCH.