Saturday, July 31, 2010

Wednesday, July 07, 2010

No pizza for you!

We had a stunning development take place last week here at Chez DuPree.  It was such a surprise that we are, frankly, still reeling.

Here's the background: the hubby quit his previous place of employment in January after giving two weeks notice.  He was being ignored by the owner, not receiving answers to questions or having calls returned, his hours being cut without notice, and - perhaps the most uncomfortable of all - the gifts he had given his boss for Christmas lay wrapped and untouched on the desk in the office for weeks.

You also need to know that the owner in question is a person of questionable emotional grounding who THRIVES on drama and at being the center of attention.  Sadly widowed young in life, but also an elder sibling - she probably found the limelight of attention too pleasurable to leave.

In fact, I've heard her start a sentence with "I did not bury my husband at 40 just so that..."   What comes after is not important (it was about her daughter dating someone with a tattoo - but no matter) - it's just so inconceivable that someone could be so wrapped up in their own melodrama and martyrdom. 

Most conversations with her include at least some mental gnashing of teeth, rending of cloth and applications of ashes and sack cloth.

Anyway - the owner is in business due to the largesse of her parents who own two pizzerias and a restaurant.

Returning to the hubby - he figures the writing is on the wall, so he pens his two-week notice in the form of a letter of resignation.  A more completely emotionless and professional letter has yet to be written - it included thanks for being given the opportunity to work at said establishment, best wishes for the future, happy to work out the two weeks - sincerely yours, yadda-yadda.

My friends - the Drama Hindenburg has just landed and all of America is on fire.  Pow. Zam.

Little did we know, a major family revelation had taken place on the other side of the equation  and was why the business and the hubby were being largely ignored.  But had that been conveyed to her staff - well, things might have worked out differently.  That leaked out to us a bit later.

But that would require a break in the DRAMA IN PROGRESS.

The phone rings two days later  - "Don't come back.  We're done."


So - ways were parted and certain places of business were generally avoided by us to prevent any unfortunate or uncomfortable confrontations.

Humorous stories of the drama left behind kept us generally amused - fanciful explanations of why the boy left were being told and getting back to us - "he was such a baby if he didn't get his way" - "he needed more time at home" - and tales of her showing all and sundry his extremely innocuous and highly professional letter of resignation with exclamations of   "There! Just take a look at that!"  To the puzzled looks of all who would read it.

Drama!

Fortunately, the best customers followed the boy to his new job and shared tales of hilarious pantomimes and dramatic scenes.  And all seemed well, until...

Last Monday, we decided not to order pizza from the crappy pizzeria around the corner that we had been frequenting and decided to try the old family-run stand by.

I called and placed the order - the account is in my name, for what it's worth.

The phone rang a minute later.  Hubby answered.  He was informed that they would not deliver to us.  The mother - who generally runs this branch of the family businesses - had decreed it so.

In fact, we were not welcome at any of the family establishments.

We were stunned.  Completely gobsmacked.  Adults really act this way?  Really??

Anyway - the hubby called back and demanded to speak with the matriarch.  It was then determined through increasingly civil and open discourse that there had apparently been a huge misunderstanding.

The boss the boy left - for whatever bizarre-o reason - assumed that knowledge of the family issue was why he had chosen to leave.  Huh?  He left because you had a personal family thingamie?

No consideration that he might feel - oh, alienated?  Undervalued?  Ignored? 

No - it was about the DRAMA.

I'm told the conversation ended on a fairly pleasant note.  Some matriarchal tears were shed over past shared meals and interactions.  No voices were raised.  Some wounds may have been salved.

But in the end, we never did get the goddamned pizza.