| [ |
mood |
| |
dream a dirty dream |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
I Monster - Daydream In Blue |
] |
First of all: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MANDA!!!!! I know it's late, but I love you and my computer is jacked and it thinks that it is Saturday morning at present.
One of my mother's good friends recently had a baby. By recently of course, I mean I have no idea how old it is or when it was born, but I know it still looks like a lump of some sort of dough rather than an actual being and it doesn't wee in the big toilet and it doesn't talk. Its name is Jack. His name, actually. Whatever.
Anyway, Jack, still being of the baby variety has to deal with a lot of shit. Even though it's cruel, mothers that have babies like to do shit just to see how the baby will react. Putting lemon juice on the pacifier and things of that nature. Well, from what I have gathered, the woman who had Jack is of the variety who found it a sin against all that was holy to take her baby outside until it had been out of her womb a significant amount of time (8 or so months). I remember watching a documentary that involved bears of some kind and said documentary noted that the cubs would be helpless, awkward, and unable to get their own food until they were something like three years old. I remember thinking that was stupid because-- what the fuck. They are BEARS. They might be cute when they are tiny but they are still born with the innate ability to fuck shit up due to the sheer virtue that they are bears. Personally, I wouldn't want to encounter any sort of bear in a dark alley, not even a three month old one. Sure, I could try and kick it, but that motherfucker would still probably maul me and then wail terribly until its mother came along and they both feasted/eviscerated me proper.
I like nature documentaries.
I wonder why I was so pissed off that two year old bear cubs could not find food. I didn't learn how to actually make food on my own that didn't involve bread and condiments found in the cupboard until I was six, and I still can't actually hunt an animal for food. I mean, I can fish, but I need all sorts of implements and it still freaks me out that when I clean the fish, its heart will beat completely independent of its body for five minutes or so, so really I am useless as a survival machine at 24 when bears can fuck anyone's shit up (except, possibly, for dinosaurs-- which-- who needs to worry about them anymore?) at age three. It makes me feel better when I notice myself being judgmental and hypocritical like that.
So, this Jack. I was over visiting my mom a week or so ago, and we were watching nature documentaries. I forced her to. She hates them because she is 'aware of the food chain' but 'can't stand all of that horrible eating shit'. Apparently, at age 59, she is useless as a hunter as well. I take heart.
I find it funny she has no problem with animals eating birds/birds killing each other/violent deer-like creatures goring each other to mate/fish being killed ("EXCEPT DOLPHINS!") but if she starts screaming if an impala is taken down by a leopard and can say nothing for the next half hour apart from, "I KNEW IT! This is an EATING show!"
So this particular eating show was detailing about how Africa turns into a lush oasis for an itty-bitty amount of time when the rains come and then there is this majestic festival of life where all of the animals revel in the glory of the water or whatever. Said festival of life is accompanied by the growth of an astounding amount of vegetation. For Africa.
"Look at all of that grass! It's so green! You would never know that was Africa. You know Jack hates grass!"
"Who is Jack?"
"Let me show you!" She fished around in her purse for a bit and then produced a picture of a roly-poly Asian baby with cheeks for days. "This is JACK! We call him JACK JACK! He hates grass!"
"Like the way I used to hate grass?"
"Yes. Exactly like that. It's so funny. She finally put him out on the lawn, and he hated it! He made all sorts of funny faces and got all cranky, and it was the cutest thing!"
"Mom?"
"Yes, dear?"
"You always tell me how funny it was when you would put me on the grass and I would be miserable and make all sorts of angry faces."
"It WAS!"
"Did you ever put me on the grass just to watch me freak out?"
"Hmmm.... YES! It was great."
I crinkled my brows.
"I know, I know. I'm a terrible mother. But, Kate... shit like that is just funny. You wait. You'll do it to your kids. If you don't, I will. And you know what? You'll laugh."
"I'm only having one kid, if any."
"Oh, shut up."
For the longest time, I was convinced that my mother was an unfit one. I still am, but now, it's just for different reasons.
Upon breaching the subject of possible future children, I asked her why she didn't let me take my cat with me when I moved out. She answered some crap about how he would be scared in a new place. Except she has moved three times since then and I have not moved once.
"Well, that's good," I told her. "When I have kids, you can take care of them because you'll be afraid I will move a million times and neglect them."
"Oh no," she said. "When you have kids, that'll be your thing."
"That's bullshit. You're taking care of my kids."
Lucky for everyone that children are not in my plans. I would get irritated every three years and legally change all of their names, anyway.
My mother has also taking to a lot more cursing and the fact that I hang out with her now more than ever is rubbing off. She likes to call me 'motherfucker' and she has taken to talking about penises and inordinate amount. So I called her out on it.
"Kate, you're a penis-eater," she said, and then giggled.
"You talk about penises a lot. Clearly, you need to get laid."
"KATIE!!! You SAY that to your MOTHER??"
"Yes. I will say it again, too. Especially if you don't stop talking about penises."
Years ago should would have beaten me with a wooden spoon if I had said anything like that. Now, we just call each other whores while I tell her she has dementia and she asks me if I "hump" people.
Instead of boasting proper, I held off, terrified that something bad would happen. Well, that was idiotic, and now instead of boasting, I just have more terrible things to report. In a way, it's better, and sort of poetic-justice, since I am better at feeling and telling about tragedy anyway.
So, here's what. On February 27th, I got a job! Hooray! A job in this economy is a big deal! Except that I was sort of pissed off that I got hired since it was a food service job, and after 2002 (Cold Stone) I vowed that I would never have one of those again. The reason I hated food service so much was because of the amount of sanitation involved. Mopping, bleaching, washing dishes, washing hands every five minutes as though I were Howard Fucking Hughes. I understand that this sort of thing is necessary in food service, as any place that serves food functions a lot more happily without a bunch of food poisoning law suits on their hands. Here's the thing though-- I've had ultra-sensitive skin ever since I was a baby. Allergies to all sorts of things. Skin allergies. If it was too hot, I got hives, and if I didn't jump in a cold shower right away, I'd have to spend three days Aveeno-bathing. That said, all of the chemicals required for a safe food experience for everyone caused my seventeen year old skin to CRACK and BLEED. Usually, only gruff salty sea biscuits whose hands are worn raw by hauling ropes get that kind of thing. I got it from food service, but since the economy is nestled in Lucifer's fetid asscrack of doom at the moment, I took my second-ever food job.
However, this place was in town, my commute was 20 minutes walking, 4 minutes driving, and hey! Work! Amazing! So I took it, and gladly. Especially since I sent out 14 fucking resumes and they were the only people that bit. Well, one other place did, and it was in the city. It paid well enough to accomodate the $12 a day commute without having any ill-effects at all. They got in touch with me for an interview, and I was so set, so ready, so eager. On the way there, I got so lost that I ended up in Fremont instead of Frisco, and heading back, somewhere around Pacifica I got horribly car-sick and decided to just go home instead, lest I embarrass myself by showing up to the interview and throwing up all over the place. Well, I did one better. I pulled off the freeway in Oakland, parked in the Laney College faculty lot (which, according to a bunch of signs, I could have been very heavily fined for; the gods smiled on me that day, I was not) and threw up expired fruit juice all over my car. Awesome.
After that ordeal, any job, even food service, seemed like a pretty sweet deal. Let me be a lesson to you: go to college.
So I took the goddamn job. I was good at it. As I should be; I have been in the retail world for long enough that I should be able to do any such thing in my sleep. There were a couple of ... drawbacks. Said food place had a more strict dress code than Barnes and Noble. I spent $47 buying a uniform*. I can't even remember how I managed that, because I know I was penniless when I accepted the job, otherwise I wouldn't have. I think MAYBE last year's tax return paid for it. If not... I think I may still be overdrawn.
*Uniform included special shoes, special shirt, special pants... and hair-dye. Ya heard. HAIR DYE. That place, despite the fact that it enforces a policy of making the workers wear little hats that make them look like uncircumsized male genitalia, MADE ME DYE MY HAIR. Apparently, red is not a natural colour. Could have fooled me. I should be very angry with apples and chop down any rose bushes I see, ever, in life, because it is not natural. It took three boxes of dye to make my hair look "normal" and even now, it still has a green tinge to it (which... what? My hair was red.) I didn't realise how upset dying my hair brown would make me. I freaked out. A lot. I spent a lot of time crying. I'm already average in every way. Blue eyes, the most prominent eye colour in the world (most people think brown is, but no, statistically, it is blue.) Brown hair, obviously. Average build. I wasn't allowed to wear nail polish or have more than three piercings in each ear, either. I have four. Also.. nails without colour? Alright, fair enough. I also had to keep them "short and orderly". So I was this creepy albino brunette with mousy hair and blue eyes and boy hands and... it was really upsetting. It had been so long since I'd had "normal" hair (even by choice) that I got really depressed. I suspect the reasoning behind this is because... I know I am a slacker and a loser. Everyone knows this about me. The only thing that made me comfortable about living in such a way (apart from the fact that I know I am too poor to actually change it with a fancy degree and such) was that I could be a slacker and have fun hair and dress like a hobo and pretty much not have to adapt to anything. This time, I had to change everything. I know it seems so nominal, but it was really hard, and it upset me a lot. I mean, the one totally fragmented silver lining that I was able to cling to, that I was a useless lump of slacker who could at least look how she wanted? That was completely annihilated. My fourth earholes actually closed up.
This job was with an employer, in case anyone is curious, that rhymes with Samba Moose.
About two weeks into the Samba Moose job, I got a call from someone else. The someone else is someone with whom I filed my resume just for the hell of it. The other place was a place I wanted to work since I was twelve years old... but I had never tried. I just figured I would never ever work there because I wanted to, so much.
So. Two Mondays ago was my interview with dream job. I pretty much peed my pants when they called me, and even though I already had the job at Samba Moose, I took the interview anyway. The last time I was working and I got an interview for another job, I told the lady who called, "Yeah... I have another job now" and then I found out that they paid better and wanted to give me more hours, so no way was I fucking it up this time.
So I got all dressed up in my fanciest shirt, my best dress pants, I curled my hair, powdered my nose, everything, EVERYTHING! I even took the interview only an hour prior to one of my scheduled Samba Moose shifts even though I am very much aware that job interviews can run long, be late, and I might perhaps miss some of that shift. I didn't care. I wanted to be awesome and have two jobs and actually be able to save for the future that I am always questioning whether or not I should even bother waiting for, you know? The fact that dream job even bothered to call me for an interview made me think... maybe I CAN do the things I dream (BASTIAN!)
Oh, and also I wanted to have two jobs because Samba Moose found it awesome to give me 12 hours a week despite my seven goddamn years of retail experience, fuck you very much. Not only that, but my Samba Moose manager, the third day I was there, told me she needed another manager. Of course you do. When I was at Susie's, I got promoted to manager after only nine shifts. I get it. I know I am qualified, and it really irks me that Samba Moose woman told me she needed a manager on the third day... and yet she still started me at minimum wage. Oh... I need a manager, but I want you to work and bleed for it and I really also want you to get evicted in the mean time! Also, I want you to dye your hair some horrible mousy colour, and I want you to spend $47 that you don't even HAVE in order to come work! Welcome to the team! What a crock of shit. Incidentally, if anyone's got a grand they don't mind parting with, that would be pretty awesome.
So, here comes dream job interview. I'm curled and primped and polite and parked far away so that just in case the girl interviewing me was one of those super-observational types, she wouldn't be able to see my car with its Powerpuff Girls blanket in the backseat and the FUNERAL sticker in the window and the "My other car is a broom" bumper sticker that my dad bought me.
She's got my resume in hand.
"So... I don't see anything on here about why you'd want to work here," she says to me. Her name is Robin. "Did anyone tell you to write that on your resume?"
"Not that I recall," I say, even though I am 100% certain that none of the assholes that took my resume even bothered to do anything but look bored at me. I learned from watching lots of Oz that 'Not that I recall' is the best way to answer a question without any recourse.
"Ok, well, I'm going to leave you alone for a few minutes and let you write that down for me," she said. She gave me a pen and fled the office. She returned less than five minutes later and I'd written more than half a page. Thank God I was one of those nerdy language people who could pull an 8-page paper out of thin air in half an hour, and it stuck with me, even when out of practice.
She read it, and I noticed with glee that she is one of those people who reads things while mouthing the words at the same time, as if at any moment she'd be expected to read aloud. I love that so much. She read, and then kept interviewing. She asked me what my wages were at each job. When it came to Susie's, I said [wage]... "but that was only because I was a manager!"
"Mm-hmm." she murmured, and scribbled something on a notepad.
Oh shit, I thought. She's going to deny me the job because I made so much at Susie's.
I found this loltastic video re: Susie's by the way. With the actual Susie in it. And also, one of the tops she is bragging about in the video? I OWN IT LOL. Guess which one? I loved my employee discount while I worked there, not gonna lie.
"Well, I keep wanting to ask you things about the job here, but every time I do, I look at what you've written and I realise you've already answered my question." she said. "By the way, our starting wage is [more than I could have ever hoped for a retail job]."
"Really?"
"Yes. That's why I am surprised that you made [horrible nominal wage] at all of these other jobs. Especially the one when you were a manager."
She actually looked appalled. I almost cried. Someone that finally understood.
"Anyway," she said, reaching into a desk and pulling out an official-looking pile of papers. "I'm gonna go ahead and hire you. And I'm gonna start you at [more than the generous wage that made my eyes boggle when I realised that it was starting pay]. The rest of it will be commensurate, and based on productivity. It's funny... I really didn't expect that I'd be hiring anyone today."
"REALLY??"
"Yeah?"
"THANK YOU!!" And I got up and I hugged her, because I am an excitable idiot.
I got fired from the job at Samba Moose because I am stupid and accidentally slept through a shift (forgot to set my alarm). If my phone had not been on silent, I might have woken up for it. Alas. My mistake was equivalent to "no call, no show." which is automatic 'termination'.
Well, yeah, considering that all of my shifts were two hours long, if that. You oversleep once, and you're fucked. Good thing I got that other job prior to having gotten fired. My training for dream job (which I still CANNOT believe that I landed), JUST the training? 25+ hours. I am sort of disappointed that I will not be a rich bad ass with two jobs... but really. Not only did dream job HIRE me, but I got a bump in pay without even asking or anything. I GOT HIRED WITHOUT ANYTHING WITH A BUMP IN PAY. ARE YOU CRAZY? This is why I should not have been driving for the last couple of weeks.
Also-- guess what? NO DRESS CODE.
"As long as people can see your name tag, the way you dress is at your discretion. Khaki pants? Pah. We wear what is comfortable."
Employee handbook sayeth: HATS ALLOWABLE. Employee handbook sayeth: THIS COMPANY IS VERY OPEN TO YOUR INDIVIDUALITY, PROVIDED YOU USE PROPER DISCRETION. Translation: EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK SAYETH, WELCOME TO HEAVEN, WE HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU... and then they smile and I cry moar.
I am still pissed that I got fired, especially for forgetting my alarm... but for a minute I had two jobs, and I was amazing.
5000
|
cheerful
nostalgic
impressed
calm
sore
curious
stressed
amused
giddy
