I've been watching American Idol season 7 from the beginning. I'm talking about from the God forsaken auditions. I was glued to my television when that feathered fellow sang a song to Simon. I was horrified by the hairy dude in the Princess Leia metal bikini who got waxed in hopes of them taking him seriously. I didn't turn away when the emaciated chick who lived in a studio apartment with 3 cats, 2 dogs and her mother attempted to sing like Janis Joplin and then threw a psycho trip fit when they told her no. I was there. I was blogging live online with Sean Daly and the Pop Lifers -- sounds like a church band, doesn't it?
I had no scheduling issues. I seemed to always be off on Tuesdays. Tuesday is the night the kids performed. I worked one Wednesday evening in that entire period. That is until I expressed my desire to be off on Tuesday and Wednesday nights. Then it suddenly became a scheduling issue. While hovering over my supervisor's shoulder I declared, "I'll work any night except for Tuesday and Wednesday. You have 5 others to choose from." I had already been penned in to work Monday night. Aces! He listened. He heard my plea. The following day I got to work and guess what occurred? That's right. He changed my night to work from Monday to Tuesday; performance night. What the flippin' hell!? Graciously, a co worker traded with me.
The following week; a repeater. He did it again. I told him I have very few requests or guilty pleasures in life. I have little outside fun. Please, don't go and jack up my weekly, creative love/hate expression for this show.
Tuesdays weren't an issue, but somehow in the grand scheme of life, me having Wednesday nights off might cause the Earth to fall off its axis and life as we know it would cease to exist. Fine! It's elimination night and group sing. Who gives a crap, right? WRONG! This coming Wednesday the ugly beast reared it's ugly head and I'm scheduled to work on Wednesday evening. Actually, a long freakin, horrible shift of 11:30-9. That's FINALE night. That's when the Battle of the Davids happens. All season I've watched this putrid, horrific folly and I'm going to be denied my right to snark with the best of the best of the best snarkers on the planet? I don't think so, Tim.
I let too many Wednesdays slide. I gave the impression that I wasn't serious about my quest for craparific television. I hadn't put my size 11 foot down and insisted that I needed Tuesday and Wednesday night free for snark. He took advantage of my good nature. There are other bodies who are willing and able to work a 3-4 hour shift. It could have been manipulated for my benefit. I ask for so very little in life. Why can't I have this eensy weensy joy? WHY!? WHY!?WHY!?-- she wails like a horse toothed ice skating diva after being clubbed like a baby seal when Greenpeace wasn't looking.
I've contacted a co-worker to help me remedy this debacle. The scheduling is so tight that I'm unable to simply switch a night. Well, I could, but guess when night is the only night that I'd manage a swichcarooni? You got it. Tuesday. UGH! Pissy doesn't even describe it. Oh! And I had requested the entire day of Thursday off so I could be available to chaperone my son's Great America trip. IGNORED! I will not be ignored! I get really funky and vocal when I'm pissed. Granted, they have enough chaperones. So, my presence isn't required, but there's a principle in question here. No one else had asked for Thursday, May 22 off. Yet, I am denied. No reason for it other than he just doesn't observe the giant desk calendar with people's requests written on it. He did it to another associate, but that was worked out with ease. Of course! Bastards.
So, I sit in wait today. My co-worker supposed to call to let me know if it's yay or nay. I'll lose a couple of hours, but this is a freak show that cannot be missed. As soon as they torture us with the most horrifically written song of the decade and a cavalcade of filler guest performers prance across the stage it won't matter. When the winner of American Idol 7 is announced and they are forced to sing a shittily written song while 800 pounds of Mylar confetti falls upon their disbelieving melon, it won't matter. It just doesn't matter! The fat lady will have sung and the snark fest of the year will have passed and will have missed out.
Newsflash! The co-worker I first offered my hours to cannot work for me on Wednesday. However, there is another willing, able body who has graciously taken on the task. Thank you Alan-bo-balan.
I should also note that my supervisor boss person called to apologize for overlooking my request. Apparently, the co-worker with whom I vented doesn't recognize a rant; nor, understands the words, "I'll take care of it. Don't mention this to him. I just needed to get it off my chest." Yes, my lesson is, once again, learned. D'oh!