So... I received a "verbal warning" today, which required my signature, so I guess it's official. We can thank Peppermint Twatwaffle. She didn't ship all she was supposed to this month and it is, of course, my fault. It all boils down to one order that was given to engineering for processing that I never received back, but was later found in the file cabinet.
Everyone has access to the file cabinet. I have no memory of ever even having seen the order. This was during the time that Jabba, the head engineer first went out on medical leave and The Groper was trying to figure out what to do in his absence. I'm pretty sure either he or the other little engineer guy put it in the file cabinet. Hell, to this day I never know where the orders are going to end up after he gets them.
Yet it's my fault.
It's okay. I thought Sparkles was going to cry, bless his heart. I don't even care anymore. I refuse to try to defend myself (I am sooooo effin' tired of having to play defense attorney) or throw anyone under the bus. I'm just going to take a deep breath and hold strong in my faith that what comes around goes around and wait for the bomb to drop.
I mean, Peppermint Twatwaffle's inability to ship her required budget couldn't have anything to do with the fact that half the machinery is broken, including the hourly time clock (people are just coming and going willynilly out there) and the intercom system. We can't balance the round parts that are the guts of our product (let's assume we make Robot Monkeys, making this the monkey brains. You can't have a wobbly monkey.) We can't even cut the metal that the arms and legs are cut out of because both (all two) lasers are down and we're all just supposed to sit on our asses until Clyde comes back from vacation to see if he can fix everything.
But.. obviously.. it's all my fault.
In the words of Peppermint Twatwaffle, "I am so over it."
We'll talk again soon.