Boys are helpless

At the hellhole, there are about 50 supervisors on my shift, and I am one of the four females in this group. If the old boys club had it there way, women would only be in the building for the purposes of cleaning the kitchen and break time blow jobs. Needless to say, I do neither (much to the chagrine of my male counterparts), so they usually try to find other stereotypical gender-specific tasks for me.

Dessert Service

It was my boss's 25th anniversary with the company, so the big boss picked up an ice cream cake at Carvel on his way into work and literally dropped it on the conference room table. No plates, no utensils, no knife.

The boss looked at me helplessly, with that "Us poor dumb guys are gonna have to dig in with our bare hands if you don't do something" look on his face, so I went and scrounged up some supplies. All I had was a plastic knife, so I went to work on the cake.

Being a man, Big Boss had no idea that you have to leave an ice cream cake out for a while before you can cut it. So there I sat, with a brick of ice cream and a plastic knife, and 15 hungry men staring me down. My boss started the staff meeting, and I started hacking away.

"Um, yeah...do you think you could cut this into about 20 pieces?
That would be greeeeeeeeat..."

After 5 solid minutes of sawing, I had one jagged piece of cake. The men snickered. I looked around for tools. Jon had his scanner [small handheld computer used for tracking packages, weighs about a pound], so I snatched that up and started using it as a hammer for my plastic knife chisel. Snickers turned to giggles.

K: "Ok, smart asses...anyone got a better idea?"

[silence]

K: "Christ...is there a microwave in the immediate area?"
B: "Patty has one in her office, but it's a little one."
K: "Be right back."

I took the full-sized ice cream cake to the office next door, only to find a .7 cubic foot mini-microwave. Not to be defeated, I literally stuffed the cake in there and pushed "start". The turntable was jammed, and it started making a funny noise, so I decided the cake was done. It was warm and drippy on the sides, slightly softer in the middle, and as good as it was gonna get. I dripped back down the hall and served the neanderthals their fucking cake.

K: "Guys, here's some wet wipes. PLEASE clean up after yourselves."

[laughter]

Guess who was left to clean up the sticky puddles. Yeah, that's right, THE WOMAN.

Party Planning

One of my co-workers was being promoted and transferred, and it was mentioned early in the week that we should plan a little something for his last day, which was to be Thursday. Wednesday night, my boss flipped $40 bucks of petty cash at me.

B: "Pick him up a cake, will ya?"
K: "Me? Uh, ok...well how big do you want it?"
B: "I don't fuckin' know...big enough to feed 20 guys."
K: "Well, I can get a cake big enough for under $20 bucks."
B: "He needs a card, too."
K: "Card will be about 2 bucks. Seriously, I don't need to take $40."
[Boss thinks for a moment about how to eat up the other $20 bucks.]

B: [in a serious tone] "Get ice cream too."
K: [stares]
B: "Hey, why don't you get an ice cream cake?"
K: "Don't think so, funny man."

I ended up buying an autumn-themed cake with matching cupcakes, a variety of soda, paper products, ice, and a quart of coffee ice cream. The men were impressed with the spread.

M: "Wow, this is pretty fuckin' sweet."
K: "Thanks."
B: "I guess you're the go-to gal from now on."
K: "Fantastic."

And as for the inevitable sticky puddles? Yup, me again. Fucking men, everything is always sticky when they leave. Yet another argument for lesbianism.

Laundry Management

Management ordered new polo shirts for us in recognition of...shit, I don't remember, who cares...and they finally came in last night. My boss sent me all over the building, taking everyone's shirt sizes so I could go to the manager's office and snag the shirts for my department before the other departments got wind and took them all for themselves.

I walked into the office, and it was empty, so I opened up the box to start digging around for the proper sizes only to have my eyes assaulted by the ugliest shirt I've ever seen.

It's some sandy-colored crap that blends in almost perfectly with my carpet, with the company logo and embroidery on the sleeve in recognition of whatever stupid production milestone we achieved. All of the embroidery is in mustard yellow. You can imagine the horror. And this is our reward.

This is the end result of the boys trying to think for themselves.



Anyway, back to the story. As I was digging, the manager walked in.

K: "My boss sent me for the shirts. Ok if I take them now?"
M: "Sure, no problem." [goofy helpless look comes over him]
K: "What's wrong?"
M: "I'll love you forever if you fold them nice and put them into neat piles on my desk."

[pause]

K: "O...kay. No problem."
M: "Hey thanks K, you're the best." [pats my head]

Apparently, owning a vagina makes me uniquely qualified to fold shirts. Whatever.

As I was folding, the resident metrosexual of the shift, Ramon, came sashaying through the door. Ramon likes his shirt snug, and prefers mediums to the larges that actually fit him.

R: [thick accent] "Where are all zee mediums?"
K: "There were only two, and I took them for the girls."
R: "WHAT? I ordered da medium."
K: "Well so did they. They're swimming in the shirts they have, and need them smaller."
R: "I need MINE smaller, too!" [whining now]
K: "Look, you're a GUY, too fucking bad. Take a large and get over it."
R: [takes shirt, sashays out the door in a huff]


One can only wonder what they'll find for me to do next. Mandatory ass wiping can't be far behind.