Pronunciation: /oh-ver-rool d/
In my case, being overruled means as much as standing up for yourself and believing people actually listened to you, only to find out later they are so stupid they still only see it their way. And although they did in fact listen to you, this was merely on a superficial level and they managed to manoeuvre around your wishes in such a way, they get what they want and you are left thinking: “Err, what just happened?”
I am talking about my work.
Okay, just for entertainment purposes, I’ll include a cute little anecdote in which I was brutally and masterfully overruled by my almost two years old nephew.
My sister came over for my birthday a few weeks ago, bringing along her two cute little kids J and D. D is four months old now, so she doesn’t do a lot apart from smiling at everything and crying for more food and attention. And being utterly adorable when doing that, might I add.
J is now in a phase where he is learning to talk and, even better, learning to say full sentences. Which is super cute, especially since he now tries to say my full first name (Samantha) and failing, meaning I am now aunt Mantha. But him trying and almost succeeding is so sweet, it makes my heart melt every time.
Another word I am happy he’s learned, is (of course) panda.
On the day they came over, my sister was so kind to give me some panda related gifts so as to expand my ever growing collection. Among these gifts was a set of a plastic baby plate, a drinking cup and a bowl, all with a panda face painted on. Since my sister kept bragging about how J learned to say “panda”, I got desperate to make him say it. So, in a meagre attempt, I held up the panda plate to my nephew and asked: “J, what is this? Can you tell me what this is?” (imagine a pitch-high voice with this. Apparently that’s what automatically happens when talking to children).
J looked up, stared at the plate, stared at my expectant face, and said: “Plate.”
Well, of course he was spot on (and totally overruling me).
Anyway, I’ve been overruled again, this time on a not so cute matter. The person who makes my work schedules manoeuvred neatly around my wishes of not receiving too much work.
First of all, I work as a household help for older or sick people who can’t do the chores themselves. The work is okay, the people I’ve worked for so far are friendly and I guess it’s always better than sitting at home doing nothing.
But the downsides are the lower-than-minimum-pay and the fact that this kind of work takes a huge strain on my physical health. After vacuuming two houses a day, mopping several floors and cleaning countless toilets, my back is killing me. And because I have a lot of other things to do when I’m not working (applying for better jobs, learning Icelandic, writing an article about my trip to Norway, finding the meaning of life, etc.), I asked them not to schedule me in on Tuesdays and Thursdays, because the workload was getting too much for me.
And so they didn’t. Every Tuesday and Thursday I am free. Hurray!
At this point I should probably tell you that officially, I am a substitute cleaner (if that’s not an official job title, I just invented it. It does sound terrible though, as if I’m not good enough to be a ‘real’ cleaner… O.o). I started off taking over for people who were on a holiday, but soon got asked to stay on for a longer period to clean for people who’s regular help was out sick or pregnant.
Because another colleague is now at home with a shoulder injury and won’t be back before the end of December, my supervisor has given me two more addresses to visit. Without asking, she added them to my weekly roster. Not on Tuesdays, no no. Not on Thursdays either.
She completely overruled me by scheduling the new people in on Mondays and Wednesdays, making those already long days even longer (officially I am not allowed to work for more than six hours a day due to the heavy physical labour cleaning involves). My new Mon- and Tuesdays now each contain three addresses and the working hours exceed the six hours limit. By say fifteen to thirty minutes :’)
I have absolutely no grounds to complain. I can’t b*tch about fifteen minutes. Plus, they kept my request of having two days off in mind. And even though I don’t like getting up at six in the morning to be at work at eight, nor do I like the idea of two full days of cleaning and an aching back, all I can do now is laugh. At the stupidity of the situation. Because being overruled like this is just idiotic.
I much rather be overruled by my nephew. Although, maybe not any more when he’s hit puberty…