thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Happy C-Day; Molly 2.0's boobs. Another dumb survey for the bored and the shut-ins. ~~ I believe I'm beginning to feel more comfortable around our Box Office boss, the Queen. Today, for instance, I patch this needlessly irate patron through to her with an outrageously smartassed remark, and she comes out of the sitch in complete agreement with me. This woman has clearly never processed her bad childhood into teen poetry, and is taking it out on me. It's the kind of phone call that gets the attention of the rest of the staff (and everybody's there to witness it, today) because I start out playing boredly with my slinky while I try initial means of reasoning with the twit in question, then end up engrossed in the challenge of maintaining a professional, firm phone voice while hanging myself like a corpse over the back of my swivel chair, eyes crossed, legs flailing wildly, right hand in pistol position at my temple, left hand holding the horn to my ear so this illiterate sociopath can repeat herself to me fifty times and listen to twenty identical "no, this is how things work," responses interspersed between rants without hearing a damn word I say. "So, if I exchange [from third matinee to second matinee] my extra Peter Pan tickets won't still be next to my season tickets." "Well, your additional Peter Pan tickets aren't to be assigned yet. We have to fill all the season ticket orders first and then draw from the available seats remaining thereafter." "But the note in my renewal notice said they'd be right with my regular tickets." "I have that form in front of me. It says you'll be assigned well in advance of the general public, but after all the season ticket orders have been filled, so we'll know what seats are available for your desired performance." "So you're saying MY CHILDREN CAN'T SIT NEXT TO ME AT THE SHOW?! God, you're going to make them just sit in BAD SEATS?" "We'll assign them the best seats available, and you're welcome to exchange your series tickets in so that all the seats can in fact be together." "Well, if that's how you're going to be, I don't even WANT THEM!" "Okay, if that's how you feel, let me retrieve your ticket order. One moment please." She's on hold, and I'm asking Queen how to handle it, when the lady hangs up, then phones right back. "Pioneer Theatre Company Box Office, how may I help you?" "I think I was just talking to you, and you hung up on me." "I put you on hold. I'm trying to retrieve your ticket order. One. Moment. Please." I retrieve the info and go over her options with her another six or seven times, but she interrupts me toward the end of every explanation to say she's "disgusted" with the way we're "treating [our] subscribers" and goes on to bitch about how "every time [she attends] a show there are open seats nearby, every TIME" and I don't bother to mention that she goes to matinees, which attract the cheapest, oldest, foulest-smelling, latest-arriving crowds, and a lot of her neighbours are probably seated at the back of the auditorium because they dragged ass getting to the show. Yeah. I offer to check if my manager is on property, "if you'd like to speak with her." "ON PROPERTY?!" she screeches. I'm not sure what's the most upsetting notion here: the fact that sometimes office supervisors take lunch breaks, or the notion that we have, you know, property, and when we work here, we're kind of, like, on it. I don't ask. "Yes. My. Manager. Would you like to speak with her?" With some trepidation, but such effervescent delivery: "Yes." I put Emily Postal on hold one more time and ring Queen up on her intercom. "[Queen]?" "Yes?" "Hitler on line one for you." "I'd love to speak with her." She takes the call in her private office across the foyer, and returns to us several minutes later. Both of us are then full of adrenaline and misanthropic potshots. Sometimes her grace and professional superiority aren't as intimidating as they were at that company picnic where we met and she promptly kicked my ass at volleyball. Sometimes I look up at her -- azure eyes, long straight silver hair, golf polos with the collars turned up -- and I think, "Man, but she sure takes good care of us lowly subjects." ~~ Trivia Tidbit of the Day: M2's breasts, she says, are named Ren and Stimpy (Ren is the right one, because "he's smaller"). ~~ Everybody had a good Canada day, I assume. Especially those Toronto guys who used to have to pick up garbage, heh heh. ~ETK 00:07 - 02 July, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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