Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

I thought I'd go to work a little early on Tuesday and have a leisurely start to my shift, beginning with a snack of some fried cheese and some conversation with my coworkers. To that end I left my house forty minutes before I was due in. I was in a good mood. I had some good music on (I'm still listening to The Killers' "Read My Mind" semi-obsessively), it was a sunny day, life was good.

The last stoplight before turning in to our complex's parking lot always takes forever--there's no left arrow, and it's on main street. While I was sitting there waiting, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, so I pulled it out. I had a voicemail, and a text. The missed call was from work, which didn't concern me too much until I looked at the text from a friend of mine. It said, "You know you're scheduled at four right?"

I blinked at it several times. It was 4:10, twenty minutes before I was actually supposed to be there--as far as I knew. Still waiting for a break in traffic, I listened to my voicemail. Big surprise, an aggravated Lapdog calling to bitch me out about being late. I started swearing. I wrote my schedule on my whiteboard and double-checked it--something was obviously wrong.

As such, when I pulled in, I didn't run in with arms waving and panic written across my face. The girl who texted me was sympathetic, but told me she had to go and I was the only person scheduled at four. Crap. So I clocked in--or I tried to. Our computers are tied to the scheduling system, which won't let you clock in more than two minutes early or two minutes late without a manger scan. Around that time Lapdog came stomping out of the kitchen and gave me a look of pure evil--then went to continue around the bar.

"Oh Lapdog!" I called. He spun around, doing his best "vengeful deity" impression, ready to deliver a thorough tongue-lashing for my audacity--to speak! when I was late! I gave him my sweetest smile and said, "The computer says I'm not scheduled until four thirty."

"What computer?" He was was still trying to salvage his scorn.

"The one I'm standing at, moron," I wanted to say, but continued being sweetness and light. "Well, this one, and the scheduling."

"Well, I'm just going by what the chart says!" He gestured at the daily staffing chart, which is usually printed but that day was hand-written because of a printer problem. Then he wandered off, still muttering dubiously.

Meanwhile, the day bartender (who was also pissed that I was "late") stomped by and informed me on her way out the door that there was a table waiting to be greeting. While I was taking care of them (and an odd bunch they were, if your facial features look like a man's you shouldn't have short hair and wear baggy coveralls. I'm just saying. Earrings aren't enough to distinguish your gender, lady.), the evening bartender pulled out her iPhone and checked the online scheduling program.

Sure enough, I was scheduled at 4:30! Apparently whoever wrote out the chart, upon noticing they had a half hour with no servers scheduled, decided to just assign me the earlier time. Guess who was left out of that decision?

It was quite satisfying when Lapdog had to swallow his bile and admit he was wrong.