Hate a good number of my coworkers and have fallen in love with the residents. I think that's as it should be, rather than the other way 'round. I'm fairly certain that my coworkers aren't much fond of me, either, because I actually want to do my job and do it correctly and well. These are someone's GRANDPARENTS. Get your head out of your ass, your eyes off your cell phone and FUCKING PAY ATTENTION.
Yeah. They're gonna hate me. Because this isn't just a job to me. This is penance for assuming my mother would take care of my grandparents. I WILL make amends.
The irony is that the CNA who is mentoring me on the evening shift is named Richard, just like my grandpa. And we have a Frances, who is the antithesis of Granma.
We call them Fran and Dan the Man. He's in assisted living, she's in memory care...although I am 99.9998% positive she's back there because the nurses are squeeged out by geriatric sexuality and a door with a code is the easiest way to put a stop to that. Although they are sneaky as fuck, and I honestly think it would save everyone time and trouble if they just put them in a room together.
If nothing else, it would keep them from pleasuring each other during church services, which I got stuck going to FOUR of this weekend. It's voluntary, but I helped get the residents who wanted to go to the room and then *poof* every other aide and CNA disappeared. So it's me, a motely assortment of people in varying stages of demetia, a Baptist choir that sounds like Sister Act before Whoopi showed up...and the dynamic duo going at it like they're it the back seat of a '65 Mustang.
On the way back from one of these lovely experiences (oh, and in case y'all didn't know, I am an angel and a walking example of Christ's love. Take that Westboro Baptist Church! Pastor says I'm a blessing on Earth), I mentioned to Fran that it is slightly inappropriate to give your boyfriend a handjob during church.
"Well, they moan and groan and say Jesus! while they're doing their thing. Who is going to notice?"
That is a difficult point to argue.
I have a feeling I'll be writing a book about this.
Oh, and that whole only working weekend thing? Pardon me while I laugh. The schedule is up for next week, and I am working Wednesday-Sunday. 46 hours. AND I work Christmas and New Years, both of which are holiday pay.
What I really like is that Kent and I will both be pulling doubles on Christmas. He's not a Christmas person, and I have felt a real hole in my heart because it is just another day to him. This is actually going to mean something, and we'll be doing it together.
In other news...there is no other news. The refurbished computer we bought needs to be scrubbed, so I'm waiting for the discs for that (and trying not to kill people). Despite the ridiculously warm weather, the Yarn Fairy Project is in full swing and the guy sitting next to me (I'm at the Cybrary in Carrboro) is wearing on of the scarves I gave out last year. Life is pretty good.
Why, you ask?
Because I've put in 13.5 hours (that would be without breaks) training online and will be working 7-7 on Saturday and Sunday at my new job!!!!
I don't know how this happens, but I think this is the third time I've signed up for LJI when I've been unemployed...and found a job within 2 weeks. It's both amazing and deeply weird.
So, I'm going to be working as a nurse's aide in the Memory Care unit at the same facility where Kent works.
Needless to say, with Granma's birthday tomorrow (!!! Ah, jeez..I just now thought of that. And it's going to be my first actual day on the floor. Thanks, Mimi) and the anniversary of Grandpa's death fast approaching, this is a bit of an emotional rollercoaster. I've been taking a lot of deep breaths.
Wish me luck, y'all.
Blagh blagh blagh!
Chirpy little bastard. I hate that fucking alarm clock. I hate it even more now that I technically have nowhere to be.
The pile of covers next to me mumbles. I think it says "Coffee." Or "Kill me." They sound roughly the same at 4:30 in the morning, especially under a pile of acrylic yarn pretending to be an afghan.
Blagh blagh blagh!
Fuck. Hit the snooze button by mistake. The pile of covers seems strangely unaffected.
It's the same shuffle every morning: fumble for pajamas, because making coffee in the nude is a dangerous and slightly unsanitary project. Lay out work uniforms. Decide if this apron is too filthy for work...or if anyone is going to notice.
"Fifteen minutes until you have to shower! Do you want to eat this morning?"
I think the mumble from the pile of the covers is "No." It might also be "Fuck you" or "Kill me," but I'm too busy chasing down the roach that just skittered across the sink to worry. Borax is my best friend, and somehow screamming "Die! Die by my hand!" while squirting clouds of white powder down the drain is strangely satisfying.
Amazingly, the pile of covers has morphed into human form. "Coffee?"
My attempt at serving said beverage in a wittily snarksome mug falls flat. Does no one read their coffee mug at 4:45 in the morning? Jesus, why do I even try?
Blagh blagh blagh!
I turned the damned thing off. Why? Why, why, why? And I can't take a sledgehammer to it like I'd like to, because who would get up and make sure that the pile of covers is dressed and caffeinated before dawn?
"Hey, do I have an extra apron? We've got a new guy at work and he needs one."
Rush to the sink. I am the Goddess of Spot Cleaning. I wish I would get invoked less often, but with great power comes...yeah, you know.
And then the rush hits. It a tumbledown of "here's your lunch don't forget to put the light bill in the mail are we going to see your sister Sunday? I love you have a great day goodbye see you soon."
I lock the door and flop on the sofa. I managed to get him from floor to door in 25 minutes. Some days it is more of a struggle.
Now to shake the cobwebs out of my head and figure out my place in the world. But I'm strangely energized. This daily dance, this race against the clock, is what I live for.
Blagh blagh blagh!
That, on the other hand, must die.
Okay, that was flippant, and I am sorry for the worry I have caused anyone.
Long story short, the spousebeast decided to upload one of those free video games (because playing Hearthstone for hours on end clearly isn't enough) and completely borked the laptop. In an ironic twist, he can still play Hearthstone on it.
I won't say that this has caused problems in the household, but I won't NOT say that this has caused problems in the household.
He cobbled something together from work that runs windows 5...which ironically means I can do FB and Gmail, but not LJ. I'm blaming the Russians. And Trump.
Yesterday (after realizing how hard it is to write something on Windows 5), we ordered a tower that should be here next week. Then it will be full steam ahead.
I'm guessing I missed the signups for LJ Idol. [Just checked] Fucking fucking fuck. Apparently, the need to write (and on a deadline) is only an issue when it affects Fantasy Fucking Football.
And, yes, I should have hauled my ass out to the Cybrary or paid 35 cents a minute a Fed/Ex Kinkos, but...jeez, I didn't realize how angry I am about this.
The day the computer died, you know what happened? Someone got hit RIGHT IN FRONT OF WORK. Walking in the crosswalk, just like I was. he's okay, but I spent the day shaken, and all I wanted to do was come home and get head pats and virtual hugs.
nope. But he can play his game.
I have a bad day at work. A good day at work. A surreal day at work. My baby turns 18. i turn my ankle. Little shit, big shit...the stuff I usually write here and have some sort of community. i can't.
but he can play Heartstone.
I did not mean for this entry to go like this. I guess I didn't really realize how much I needed this.
But I'm home now. I'm home. And I should be back for good in about a week. or else I'm going to be spending a lot of time in Carrboro.
Yeah....I was cut at 12:55 yesterday. Roughly $40 in sales. No tips. Manager Tightpants spent the last hour avoiding eye contact with me, like he KNEW I was going to use my Jedi powers to send me home, leaving him to deal with Goodtime Charlie and the New Hire (who I am fairly certain was on something. So much for my high hopes).
He finally sighed like it was killing him. "I'm gonna check labor, and then maybe I'll send you home."
We're at 111%
He made a face at me. "Very funny. We can't be....wait, how did you guess that? You're good, but you're not THAT good."
You left your manager card with me. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the button on the Other Menu page that says "Labor and Sales" is...labor and sales.
"How long have you been tracking this stuff?"
About three months. How do you think I know when to start nagging you to let me go? It's not just boredom; it's numbers.
"Go home." And he walked away, muttering something about my continued refusal to go into management and how I'm going to own the damn store some day.
It gave me a good head start on getting the grocery run done. I normally like to do it in the morning, but have come to terms with the fact that I get paid on Fridays and going after work is sometimes unavoidable. Especially if I want supplies for the weekend, and I do NOT plan on wearing pants today or tomorrow.
Besides, I needed cheap champagne for brunch mimosas tomorrow. The spousebeast and I decided to celebrate of 14 year Hookup-versary tonight/tomorrow, since I have to work Monday.
[I really want to come up with something better than "Hookup-versary." Anniversary of our first kiss is accurate, but a bit too twee for me. Maybe Celebration of Mark's Being the World's Worst Wingman? Commemoration of the World's Longest Lesbian One-Night Stand That's Neither One Night Nor Involves Lesbians? Like our relationship, it's a work in progress.]
I've been bitching that Walgreens doesn't have lightup Halloween glasses this year, and he managed to find two Nightmare Before Christmas ones (and I LOOKED! Where the hell were they hiding them?). He decided we needed a gift, and how could we not have glasses with Jack and Sally that say "Mistfit Love"?
Perfect for obscenely large mimosas.
ANd may I just say how much I love not having to stick to the $40 every two weeks grocery budget? Since we both eat at work a lot of the time, it's not THAT hard to do...but the luxury of deciding I really, really want chili dogs and homemade slaw for supper (WHY? Shark week was last week. Seriously, that is not a normal craving for me unless accompanied by violent mood swings and the desire to kill all humans) and just throwing them in the cart feels amazing.
Eating three for supper (there may or may not have been munchies involved with that third one) feels less amazing first thing the following morning. Just sayin'
[I went as a dark fairy that year. Man, I loved that costume. And I am NEVER sewing tulle by hand again. I was living with the ex (long story), and we took the kids around this *amazing* historic neighborhood in New Jersey.
And, boy, did he hate that I kept getting handed candy (Ashe wanted me to go to the door with him for some of the scarier places) and told what a wonderful "big sister" I was, taking my little brothers out. (Liam wasn't exactly thrilled, either. Ashe was just "ooh, more candy! And my mama has fairy wings!")]
I've already got my costume planned out, and all I need to do is buy a cute little headband with a glittery witch hat on it that I was trying to find an excuse to buy anyway. I'm wearing my "Defy Gravity" shirt, flouncy black skirt, stripey tights, my "dress" pentacle (I have a tiny, discreet one. And then there's this....), the aforementioned headband, and going as an urban witch.
Without specifying what I was wearing, I made sure everything would check out under the work appropriate mandate (we don't have to wear McAlister's anything, thank the gods, because that would be impossible to work into a costume. Or at least a respectful one. I could rock a zombie cashier look, after all...). Big Boss looked amused, assured me that if I has wearing skid resistant shoes, she had little doubt I'd be fine. As I was leaving the office, she chuckled, "I can't wait to see what you're cooking up."
Yeah, since I'm probably the only one who will dress up. Every one else will be at the mercy of Big Boss' random bag o' stuff from Party City and Dollar Tree (I swear, that woman uses any excuse to go to a Dollar Tree. Not that I know anyone like that. *ahem*). Deely-boppers and Groucho glasses for everyone!
I got to start training the new hire today. Oh, be still my heart. HE HAS RESTAURANT EXPERIENCE! He even admitted that FoH is new to him (he's done everything from dish pit to line to expo), so there might be a little bit of a learning curve, but he's eager to learn.
And I didn't even have to show him how to work the dish machine! *sobs with joy*
Please, please, please let this one stay. And please don't let me be mistaken.
In other news, after work I got the tickets! Ian Hunter, here we come!
After about five epic fails (I had no idea he didn't know how to make a basic, back of the can pumpkin pie. Since he's been cooking since before I was alive, I tend to assume he just knows this stuff), he came home with a pumpkin pie spiced with ginger and with chunks of caramelized apples.
Holy fuck. I want to send a slice to everyone I know. I think he may win this.
I would tell him if it was shit (and, trust me, I have almost barfed on some of the things I have tried. And he knows). This is actually good. And he doesn't bake.
If he wins, he gets half of a $100 gift card to Walmart (he is trying a "team building" thing with K, and figured asking her to help would distract her from micromanaging the rest of the kitchen and bossing around the CNAs. So she'll get half if they win. He's a better person than I am). I asked what he'll do with it (because they are SO going to win), and he said "Dobby gets socks!"
*sigh* Dork. Of course, I'm excited that that also means I might get new underwear. Gods, we're getting old.
He said my ginger apple pie was his inspiration, and I'm his "culinary muse." Yes, almost 14 years in and he still usues smarmy lines...and they still work. ;)
In other news, I made it through today. I didn't kill anyone. I am still pissed that I was promised that I could leave in time to catch my bus and ended up waiting a FUCKING HOUR because cigarette breaks are more important. And stomping home with a case of beer in hand. That counts as cardio, right?
But the new schedule came out today.
I have my usual Sunday off.
I HAVE THE ENTIRE FUCKING WEEKEND OFF!!!!!! A PAYDAY WEEKEND!!!!!!
That being said, I think Big Boss did that because I am going to have the joy of training another new hire this coming week. And he's male. And cute. Heaven help me.
When I say cute, I mean that from the standpoint of "well, there goes the productivity of the younger staff who like boys." Objectively, he is attractive. My 16 year old self would have swooned. Now, I just wonder if I am going to have to break up makeout sessions in dry storage. I don't get paid enough for that (yet). And I know I will have to employ The Mom Voice (tm).
[Oh, my. Kent's on the phone to one of his FF people, and is ripping the guy a new one for his misogyny re: the U.S. election. THIS is fun. I'm glad I saved that bottle of wine I bought with my cash tips on Tuesday. I knew I would need it eventually. Why are his friends such gormless twits?]
[Also, props for Kent for correctly using "cisgendered." And explaining it to one of the aforementioned gormless twits.]
In other news, finances have been examined and, on Monday, I am going to buy tickets to see Ian Hunter. Yes! The voice of Mott the Hoople!
If I can hear "All the Young Dudes" in person....*swoon*
At least I have MORE than made up for the time I lost getting cut early last Saturday. And I haven't needed bail money, so I've got that going for me.
I DID threaten Goodtime Charlie with a phone call to HR if he speaks condescendingly to me again for doing my job by the book, especially IN FRONT OF SOMEONE I AM SUPPOSED TO BE TRAINING.
He huffed "I was just teasing."
I responded "I'm not. And I would seriously reconsider using the 'I was just joking around' defense. Doesn't seem to be going so well for a lot of men these days."
Throw in coworkers who are less than effective (although we finally got rid of J 2.0--for good, this time!), equiptment going kablooey, surprise large groups showing up who don't tip, and a wicked set of cramps....if I can just make it through today, I'll consider myself lucky.
Or I'll be calling y'all for bail money.
I was cut before ONE. I had made a whopping $28 and change when I pulled my drawer. On one of our biggest home game days.
Poor Kent is still at work, and has no idea when he'll be coming home. They've lost power, so he's scrambling to make something for supper that will be filling and warming.. I asked him how the residents were doing, and he said "They're either terrified or behaving like teenagers at a rave."
I did not know that pill swapping parties were a thing amongst the geriatric set. Of course, my theory is if everyone is having fun and no one dies, what the fuck?
This is why I could never work at the Stratford. "Oh, there's an orgy in the day room? Well, as long as it's consensual and we can get an intern to clean up afterwards.."
Speaking of assisted living, it looks like we are going to make serious moves to get Rosemarie down here and into a facility. Larry is getting sicker, and more and more verbally abusive. She doesn't deserve that. If she were here, she's be around two of her three kids...and she'd be out of fucking Delaware, which would make ALL of us happy. Larry's kids can take care of his chain-smoking, Fox News loving ass.
I have a feeling the next few months are not going to be pleasant. She kind of wants to leave, but she's afraid of being alone. And she needs to take the dog. (I DID suggest that Robin could take Buddy, since she has a fenced in yard and two dogs already. I will not disclose the name Robin called me) Like Robin said, we need to get serious, figure out her finances, and get her here.
I wonder if the Stratford gives a family discount? Hell, that way, she could see her Golden Wonder Child every damn day. And Robin and I could visit her a few times a week, and we could both tap out when it gets too much for one of us.
Oh, I so did not sign on for this. Except that I kind of did when I got married. 'Sokay, MY mother is Steph's responsibilty. I washed my hands of her care when she sent my grandparents to die in Ohio.
Family relations are SUCH FUN.
Okay, Pandora is extra random today. Granted, I have a bunch of stations checked....but Andy Gibb followed by Emily Autumn? Wow.
Gods...are my feet EVER going to thaw out? Nothing like standing in the rain for 20 minutes waiting for the bus.
Happy Saturday, y'all. My east coast friends, try to stay dry and safe. <3
Anyway I've found the events of the last two days an entertaining look at what it's like when your means of getting from point A to point B are less than conventional. At ohgodsthirty this morning, Carol the Cabbie called from the parking lot to ask if he could use our bathroom. "I have to pee, and this rain ain't helping."
He's a great guy. Used to be heavily into hair metal "when I had hair," and is just a rock and roll guy in general. He is frequently the driver when I make one of my huge grocery runs. We talk concerts. He's jealous that I've seen Alice Cooper twice. I can't believe he's seen Led Zeppelin SIX times.
So he comes in, rushes to the toilet. And Kent gets a free ride to work.
I'm wondering if I can find a way to implement something like that at work. "Sure, you can use our bathroom and not buy anything. But what's in it for me?"
[For the record, Carol was the one who said Kent was getting a free ride today. And he walked out with a blueberry muffin, so I think everyone is a winner this morning.]
Yesterday, I did my volunteer gig at St. Joe's food mission for the first time in months. I will freely admit that I am a horrible human being, and didn't go at all this summer...and used my job as an excuse. I usually work outside (signing people up, making sure no one smokes or cusses on church property, making sure everyone has bags) and...I'm weak. Summers are contentious times in a food desert. I just couldn't hack standing in 90+ heat and breaking up fights.
I guess I'm a fair weather volunteer. I suck.
But I came back and....wow. It was like being the Prodigal Daughter. "Child, where have you BEEN?"
[Note to self: don't just drop off the planet and think no one will notice. Apparently, they do.]
It was so great to see everyone again. And Sister Edith was in full on drill sergeant mode. I missed that. She's a tiny little thing, and rules the proceedings with an iron fist. "Did I just see you step in front of that mama and her babies? You're a grown man! Get to the back of the line!"plentiful, I racked up.
So there was much hilarity and many hugs. And, as is customary, the volunteers get to take home the perishables that can't be given out the next day. Since it is the end of tomato season and peppers are still plentiful, I completely scored (yeah, guess who is making fajitas with homemade salsa tonight?).
It has just been drizzling when I set out, but it was starting to steadily pelt down on my way back. I had barely started up the hill to the bus stop (and was already drenched) when I heard a few short beeps.
Jeffery from Takeout Central is now my knight in shining 78 white Pontiac.
This is not the first time one of the guys from TC has picked me up. We do a lot of business with them, because apparently a lot people will pay a $5 delivery charge for a $3.75 cup of broccoli cheddar soup. Kent's starting to call them my personal taxi service.
I officially apologize for all the TC orders that are late because someone did an illegal U-turn to drive me home. ;)
Today should be....interesting. It's a home game against Virginia Tech. Not sure how the weather is going to affect it. We could get killed...or I could be holding down a register for four hours. We'll see.
Also, he's learning to sew, thanks to his stepmom, G. Apparently, it's hard to find steampunky things that fit a 52 inch chest. He and G made the vest. <3
(Also, with the hat, he's almost seven feet tall. I birthed giants)
Mario Batali is coming to Flyleaf to do a cookbook signing next month. I'm beyond excited. I used to watch Molto Mario with Granma (she once confided that she laiked him better than Emeril, using a whispered tone like she was cheating on Mr. Bam! It was adorable), so this is going to be bittersweet. Since there is going to be a meet and greet, I'm hoping to get a picture snapped of the two of us to put on her shrine. I think she's get a kick out of this.
So, yeah...this is kind of a big deal to me. I mentioned I'll be saving my tip money for the ticket ($48 and it includes the event, the cookbook, AND food afterwards! Okay, it's a tad pricey for what I would normally spend on myself, but I've made 2/3s that in tips in the last two days), and someone on FB mentioned the tip-skimming scandal from 6 years ago.
Yes, I remember it. Yes, it was wrong. I've worked places with sketchy tip practices in the past, and it is an unfortunate part of the biz. And while I don't condone it, why bring that up when you haven't had anything to say about anything I've written in the months since we got back into each others' lives? Why this?
I am biting my tongue, because I really want to tell her she's behaving like our mutual ex, and treating me like I'm clueless and raining on my parade. Is that the sort of multitasking I really want in my life?
And if you have NEVER worked in the biz, do not presume to tell me what is going on in it. Food service isn't just my job. It's my LIFE. It's the lifeblood of this household. Big Boss saves the trade magazines for me to read on my days off (I stunned Big Big Boss one time when I asked him if he'd seen that McAlister's had moved up two spots in fast casual rankings in one of the trades). I may be a wee bit obsessed.
So back off, hush, and let me enjoy this. Jeez.
Speaking of numbers, the ones for this period are in and WE'RE # 1!!!!! We had the overall highest customer satifaction rating out of the 30 stores in our district (and we're District 12. Yeah, really). And we're the smallest store. Big Boss has been doing openings in bigger areas, and keeps coming back with the fact that we actually bother to get to know our customers. The bigger stores seem to be more concerned with speed of service. She beats it into our heads to learn names. Obviously, this works.
We're also 15th in sales, yet 3rd in catering. I guess I need to quit cursing the vice chancellors office under my breath when they call.
Hey, I curse them, BoH curses me. "Hey, y'all...I need someone to do a c---"
"No! We're all out of catering!" "Our catering is busted! Won't be fixed until the 12th of never!"
(Can't blame them. We had a make your own stuffed spud bar go out tonight. For 300. I spent what downtime I had today in back, wrapping potatoes in foil and chopping bacon and green onions. The cool thing is that we don't use the whites, so I got to take them home with me. I'm going to see how well charred green onions do in a pickling solution. Could be good. Could be toxic. We'll see)
We have two new BoH members, both women. One was hired in, and one convinced Manager Tightpants to let her train. I'm curious to see how this is going to shift the balance of power in the store, and between FoH and BoH.
A few months ago, I would have been angry that I wasn't at least offered the option. But I think I've finally realized where my true strengths lie in a corporate setting, and that's out front. And I like it. I like people. Except when I don't. But if I can be trusted to handled fifty-five fifth graders on a field trip, I must be doing something right.
Besides, when I cook for family and friends, I don't have to follow someone's rulebook.
(But I still want my own food truck)
In other news, I got one of those "gee, you spend so much money here and put up with our spam, we might as well give you something" rewards from Harris Teeter: $15 off my next purchase of $50 or more. And that is $50 AFTER coupons.
I doubt that they know what kind of demon they have unleashed. Yes, I have already gone through my coupons, checked the pantry, fridge, and freezer, and am now cross-checking it with the sale flyer.
In case of the Zombie Apocaplypse, head towards Chapel Hill.
Or, if not ZA, the hurricane. In the time it took me to write this, I had to explain to my mother AND my MiL that we are nowhere near the coast. As one of my regulars (who is a local meterologist) said "Unless we get a storm surge of about 5000 feet, I think we'll be okay."
This is not to belittle what is going on (my heart breaks for Jim and the fact he can't contact his friends in Haiti). But the annual "No, mom...we're not on the coast. And we're not in the mountains, either." has officially started. Yippee. This season lasts until late April.
Doesn't matter, though. Tomorrow is my day off, and I am ignoring EVERYTHING. I have to get up at ogodsthirty and send Kent off to work. Then I can go back to sleep, wake up at my leisure, and start on more Yarn Fairy stuff. With the windows open (is Fall really here?) and the opera playing and tea. Lots and lots of tea.
Okay, and maybe an episode of truly tragic reality television. I'm human, after all.
Kent and I were both up with the chickens this morning. It usually happens on Sundays, because recalibrating sleep cycles after three days of the dreaded 4:30 am alarm (which my bladder seems to have decided is better set for 4:15. Like I'm going back to bed for 15 minutes) doesn't always come easy. We turned on Queen's Greatest Hits and broke in the new Munchkin deck (I got Munchkin Grimm Tidings at Walgreens with my bonus rewards. The spousebeast has officially quit making fun of me for my obsessive frequent buyer cards and couponing). That deck is EVIL. We combined it with the Nightmare Before Christmas deck and the Kittens expansion, and it was just....beyond wrong. I love it!
(Also, I made an amazing come from behind win. So I might be a bit biased)
Anyway, we headed back to bed at about 6.
And the phone rang at 6:30.
This is Every. Fucking. Sunday lately. Kent's work. It is always something, and always the same person. "I need to talk to Kent."
Because it was not the Statford's number and listed as "Out of Area" I asked (perhaps a bit curtly. I had just gotten back to sleep and was all cozy, damnit!) "Who may I say is calling?"
"It's K. From his WORK. I need to talk to him NOW."
Don't take that tone with me when you call my house at ridiculous-thirty on the one day I have off with my husband. She is on my official "I don't like you" list.
Problem Child was late. Again. Now, he sauntered in while Kent was pulling on his clothes with one hand and trying to calm K's ass down at the same time (she has a temper. He's had to talk to her more than once about bullying and talking down to the residents. I don't care how long she's worked there, she'd be gone on my watch. And so would Problem Child), so he didn't have to go in. But...jeez...the ONE DAY this week I could have slept. Arrrrgh.
Between Kent's work and mine, I can't believe what I am seeing. When did chronic tardiness and no call, no shows become okay?
Goddess help the staff if I ever work somewhere where I have the ability to hire and fire. That's why I'm sticking with the plan to ride it out through my year mark and become a store opener. A bit of travel, extra money for the two weeks it generally takes to train a new staff, hella overtime...then back to my cozy corner of Franklin St. I have no desire for a management position at this point, in part because it would mean leaving my store.
Now, if Manager Tightpants decides he wants to go back to Durham (and he *is* running out of groupies atm), I might consider it.
One thing I have learned in this business: you never know.
Happy Sunday, y'all!
Oh, wow! Clyde Edgerton is coming to FRANK (a local art gallery) next week! He's doing a show with John Rosenthal.
I am SO THERE. With my battered copy of The Floatplane Notebooks
This really is a place where dreams come true. I think of the people I've met over the years since I've been here, people I never in my wildest imagination thought I would have the gift of meeting. And now I get an email from Sudie saying "Do you want to come early and help set up? That way you'll get the good seats for the talk and first crack at the crudites.".
My life is weird.
There's going to be some unpleasentness this weekend. Kent's mom has been calling...and calling...and calling. I guess she forgot I have a job now. She's been leaving long, rambling messages about Thanksgiving. I told him he is going to have to tell her that we're not coming. He has to work and, even if he didn't...we simply can't afford it.
I'm a horrible human being. As much as I want to see Suzie and Shelby, the idea of NOT spending five days in DE with a cranky, Fox News addict who chain smokes and a woman who pesters me "what do you think your boys are doing today? Do you think you should call them? I would call them" and gets anxious that I'm not eating enough and "why are you doing THAT to a turkey?" seems like heaven. I told Kent I'd come in on Turkey Day and volunteer in the dining room (because I need my heart carved out with a grapefruit spoon). I may ask for that Friday off so we can have our own Thanksgiving.
I really wish he liked white meat. A turkey breast makes more sense for two people than the ginormous turkey we end up with.
I played with the new sewing machine last night and It. Is. Amazing. I did a couple of test pieces, and it can handle denim, duck cloth, and lighter fake leather. I think I'm in love.
Okay....time to suit up. I get to deal with Manager Tightpants and Goodtime Charlie today. Which pretty much means I'm the de facto FoH manager. Yay.
This means she actually reads the drivel I put up on FB. (Wow, she must get REALLY bored on the road.) Totally made my day. Not to mention adding a really surreal note to my standard Tuesday/Wednesday post-work LHOTP/The Waltons binge.
Yes, I come home with my employee meal (and my favorite salad is going away! *sob* Why do I always fall in love with seasonal food? I mean, besides the obvious. There's no good way to make a salad with strawberries and blueberries in the fall/winter), put on something comfy, turn on the tv, and alternately eat and crochet for a couple of hours. I'm so fucking edgy. But it helps me decompress, and that is REALLY necessary lately.
Kent's having a rough time. He's worried about money (he got dinged by the state for 2012 taxes so, goodbye, savings! I am trying really hard to keep my shit together about this, because I don't understand how you can have an accountant for a sister and consistently fuck up filing like that. And this was the money from the settlement from when I got hit by the truck, so I kind of felt like it was *my* money, ya know?). I thought that would lessen some when I got a job, but he got drunk and went on a tear this weekend about how I need to work MORE hours or get a second job.
Which would be fine, were it not for the fact that he recently gave up four hours a week so someone could stay on at the Stratford. Noble, yes...but, dude. You're not working that many more than I am, and you're not doing the grocery shopping, laundry, (most of) the cooking and dishes, and waking your ass up with coffee and your uniform laid out in the morning. I have a fucking second job. It's called YOU.
Then he's got fantasy football drama. These guys are pretty much his only friends, and TinFoil Hat Boy has turned flat out nasty and a bit threatening (frankly, I think his man bun is screwed too tight). He's hurt, and really has no one else to turn to.
Again, I'm holding my tongue about his disparaging remarks about social media. I know if I can find someone to talk to if I need to, day or night. Even if we've never met. And I truly, truly appreciate that.
In better news, soon I can decompress WITH sewing machine! I have a crappy plastic one that I bought a few years ago, but I've not used it much because it feels flimsy. Well, one of the clients at Kent's work decided I needed one of her five (!!!!) machines. He has made the mistake of talking to a number of the women about me: "Oh, yeah...my wife crochets/sews/quilts/embroiders/etcetcet
I think he may discover this will ultimately be his downfall. ;)
This thing is a BEAST. An old Kenmore, back when they were actually metal and weighed a bazillion pounds and could tackle ANYTHING. I hugged the case when I was it. It even has the original manual, a box of metal bobbins, needles, old spools of thread (on wooden bobbins! ) <3
I'm going to spend Sunday shifting things around in the spare room to make an official sewing nook. I've been hauling my plastic one around as needed, but Hildegarde is getting a permanent spot. Now I am REALLY regretting not scooping up tons of my patterns the last time I was rescuing stuff from Granma's house. And I wonder where all that fabric went? *sigh*
Off tomorrow. Let the games begin!
Oh, these kids are going to be the death of me, I swear.
AND Big Boss was comped tickets to the game (box seats, no less. I admire her chutzpah: she escewed wearing team colors in favor of our Free Tea Day tshirt to "get in a little free advertising." THIS is why we get along so well), so I was left with Goodtime Charlie, Manager Tightpants, and his entourage of fangirls. On a major game day. Hooray.
I ended up opening, because we were already down a person (S hurt her leg, and evidently it was bad enough that it actually involved real medical attention, not self diagnosis). I forgot that Saturday buses run on a different schedule, so I ended up at work 45 minutes early (after checking the online schedule and screaming obscenities and tearing around the house like a thing possessed when I realized I only had 14 minutes to get dressed, out the door, and to the bus stop). The morning was nice, so I settled at one of the tables outside with my tea and my paper journal. There was a light breeze, and I was enjoying observing various families (it was Family Weekend, too) cheerfully dragging their tired/hungover/depressed because they were going to be sober all weekend progeny to stand on line for breakfast at Ye Olde Waffle Shoppe (it's a Chapel Hill institution, and almost impossible to get into on big event weekends. Unless you want to wait an hour or more) and being snarky in my notebook.
This is *not* an invitation to strike up a conversation, Mr. Random Stranger. Jeebus, why do men seem to think they need to rescue a woman who is perfectly content with her own company? Did you think I was bored, being alone with my thoughts? Or is it that much of a threat to your fragile masculinity?
[Apparently, yes. Yes, it is. I have had it about up to HERE with cis-male privilege and ego fragility and the whole, erm, package this week, but that's a WHOLE 'nother post. My FB friends got a sneak preview, but there is so, soooo much more]
I decided that, gee golly, maybe I should go clock in anyway. So I went inside, took a corner table, and enjoyed my last few moments of peace before the chaos. And chaos it was.
I am proud of myself, though. The Unfortunately Named Coworker (now to just be known as J 2.0, because she's not worth that many letters) came in at ten--why does Jeebus hate me so?!?!?--and asked what I needed finished before we opened.
Oh. Oh, oh, oh. Not a smart question, child. When I trained her how to open, she informed me "I don't do ice. It's cold and it's heavy."
[Ummm...if you are physically capable of helping Manager Tightpants put up the freezer, you can haul some gorram ice]
Heh. Heheheheheh. Now, normally, ice is my work thing (I get called The Ice Queen or Elsa all the time). But...uh uh. It's time for yours truly to set the tone, especially when I am dealing with the two most ineffectual managers in the world who are more than happy to let me do their job for them.
"Well, I need ice mostly." I get The Face. "After that, if you could bag and tag the cookies, that would be really helpful."
Which means staying in back near Manager Tightpants, which she makes every excuse to do anyway. She practically skipped off to get ice. He shot me a look, and I just smiled and shrugged. You hired her, dude. You're not enforcing the "FoH STAYS there unless specifically asked" rule and not exactly discouraging her. Sorry if she's more aggressive and not as cute as J 1.0, but not my problem. Deal with it.
Besides, I fucking HATE bagging cookies.
I decided if I was going to be stuck with people who wanted to hang out in back all day, they were going to fucking WORK. I delegated, y'all, which is not my strong suit. And delegated with an iron fist. And a sweet smile and Southern accent.
"Oh, if y'all are going back there, could you do X, Y, and Z? That would really help. Thanks."
At one point, Goodtime Charlie said "You are really stepping it up today. I think we could all go watch the game and you could run this place." It took everything in my power to keep from saying "Y'all already are and I already AM." (I swear, I have NEVER worked somewhere where management sets up a laptop in back to stream the game. College towns are a very different animal)
I mean, honestly. I ended up assigning who was on register and who was running food (not that that worked so well, but I can tell you that I was the only one who had hands in MY register). It was on the schedule, but who reads that? I was not shy about yelling "I need a runner!" when there was food in the window and I had a line fifteen deep (it's more professional than "Get out front and do your fucking job!" which was what was going through my head). We aren't allowed to even THINK about starting sidework until 1pm, so when J 2.0 took the dishes back at 12:35, I told Manager Tightpants I was going to put out the sidework list so we could "work as a team and no one person gets stuck with the bulk of the work while everyone else leaves on time."
Translation: I am not going to get screwed as usual when you clowns are the MODs and I MISS MY BUS. If you miss a Saturday bus, you have an hour wait. And while I COULD walk home, I generally prefer not to when it is 91F and I've been up since 4:30.
You want to do dishes? You get to do dishes. Soooooo many dishes. She was supposed to leave at 2. She was still there when I left, and I left at 3:38.
I am such a bitch.
Because Chels called, out, I was prepared to stay until 5 and cover the end of her shift. Goodtime Charlie approached me and said "I know you came in early, but I was wondering..."
He couldn't even finish the sentence. Jojo (PLEASE PEOPLE! Quit hiring people whose names start with the same letter! It makes blogging impossible!) skedaddled over and said "Oh, I'll stay. My girl has been here all day and I didn't some in until eleven. I mean, unless you want the hours..." And, yes, she's another Manager Tightpants groupie. She's also very openly bi, and manages to make me (ME!!!) a tad uncomfortable. She's the Queen of TMI.
I also think I might be on her (as she calls it) "Threesome Wishlist." She's done everything but say it outright.
And, ya know, if J 2.0 had already gone, I would have stayed. But, frankly, this week has been stressful. I have a spousebeast who has been walking around under a cloud of negativity; I don't need a couple extra hours of that at work and THEN go home to more of the same.
I thought Goodtime Charlie was going to cry. Sorry, Charlie.
On the up side, because I actually DID MY JOB, I not only walked away with twice as much in credit card tips as I made for the hours I worked, I was handed $16 in tips (which means I don't have to share). And when I finally got to pull my drawer, I made sure I got my free meal for working over six hours. Frequently, I just want out of there so bad, I'll just skip it. This time, however, I approached Paco (his real name. He's one of a network of brothers, sisters, cousins that Kent and I have worked with over the years here) and asked if he could make me a chicken salad sandwich with no tomato. THEN I pulled my drawer. By the time he was done, I was done. And I handed the slip to Manager Tightpants and said "Oh, here is my drawer and here is my comp meal" and swanned right the fuck out of there.
And straight to CVS, where I plunked down half of those tips for a huge bottle of cheap chardonnay.
I swear, one of these years I am going to write about something other than work.
The bad: we're having to be careful about labor, which means I may have to start looking for another job. Hopefully, Sutton's is still hiring. I could probably pick up a few early morning/late afternoon shifts, and it would be cool to be a part of Chapel Hill history.
The ugly: I forgot who predicted it, but Ms. No Call, No Show is back. Damnit! And her attitude is as bad as ever, if not worse. I swear, I think Manager Tightpants can't function without someone with that name fawning all over him. Oy.
The only difference between her and the Bully is that she tried to pull me into her Big Boss hating drama, and I squashed THAT like a late summer NC cockroach.
"I just don't see why the managers get to park in the alley and *I* have to park in the parking deck. That sucks and isn't fair. She's just a bitch."
Me: Since I ride the bus, I really don't have a dog in this hunt. But the managers have to go on catering deliveries, so that make sense. Having to have you move your car takes you off the floor...which, face it honey, you don't spend all that much time on, anyway. And please quit using that word to refer to other women. It creates a hostile work environment."
Oh, it is ON.
Being six inches taller than she is didn't suck, either. I don't think my posture has been that good in YEARS. And having the Mom voice and librarian glasses? + 5 at least.
This is NOT happening in my store again. I realize I've been complicit in the past by being silent when the other FoH women badmouth Big Boss (okay, the spousebeast also made several pointed comments which have really stuck with me about my role in this). I didn't want to be a tattletale.
It just now occurred to me that I don't need backup. I can handle it on my own. What's the worst that can happen? Looks like you can't get fired.
In lighter news, since I got sprung early and PEOPLE CAN"T CHECK DATES, I got to hippity hop down Franklin St. and pass out 4 slices of carrot cake to the street folk (and before y'all ask, I wrap them individually and include a fork. I can't give money a lot of days, because people are stingy as fuck with cash tips, but I can give whatever food the staff doesn't claim). The rain let up for a while, and the breeze was nice and reminded me that soon I can stop wearing shorts to work (I own one pair of khaki shorts--two if I borrow Kent's--and about a half dozen pair of khaki pants. Thank you, food service career!). AND I had a nice, non-creepy flirtation with a guy at the bus stop.
[I swear, it's the braids, y'all. Every time I wear my hair in two braids, I have the most interesting bus stop encounters. And not the kind that make me want to run or call the cops or come home and immediately take a shower]
We ended up taking the same bus and sitting together. It was fun. It was light. And did I mention he was my crush type? *ahem*
Doesn't help that I am working 12-5 (and tomorrow. And Friday...), which is my least favorite shift. I did let Big Boss know Monday that I'd appreciate keeping 12-5s to a minimum if at all possible, because with the way the buses run, I have to get to work 45 minutes to an hour early or 15 minutes late. And we all know me. Late is not an option.
[Besides, I am now the senior FoH person (well, technically Chels is, but she only works 5-10 hours a week and is more than happy to let me have the crown). Doesn't that mean a little bit? Of course, I didn't SAY that, but....]
At least I've got supper in the crockpot (the last of the scarily huge chicken breasts, can of fire roasted tomatoes and chiles, a little cumin, sliced onions, and I am not even sure how much garlic. And we've got a ton of tortillas that Kent's work got rid of because they were expired for about 20 minutes. He had to unload a case each of flour and corn, so he gave them to the staff and took some for us. Woo-hoo!). And tonight is the start of the new season of Survivor, which is always a bit of an event around here.
But not too much of an event, because Kent has to be up at 4:30. Bleh.
And may I just say how annoyed I am that Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D has been moved to 10pm? There is no way I can do that on a weeknight. I was asleep on the sofa halfway through. Grrr. I liked what I saw, though. (And I can safely say that Kent's early Sunday excesses as Scribbles Snavely are now to be met with "Who are you? Hemingway?" And he knows it. He just groaned, sipped his beer, and said "I guess I'm going to be hearing THAT a lot.")
It doesn't help that my shows restart right when football is winding up (Thursday nights around here are BRUTAL. I *refuse* to flip between football and RuPaul's Drag Race/Project Runway. Nope, nope, nope. I'm a Gemini, but that's a bit much even for me). I can cheerfully read through most games, but I get annoyed when I miss something I want to actually watch. Unless it's the Steelers, I really don't care.
This system seems to be working well, since the Bristol Vixens are currently leading Midgard in total points. And completely CRUSHED that misogynistic bastard from last year this past week. I normally don't trash talk, but I DID feel compelled to put up on the news ticker "Vixens owner 'The Girl' spends Monday night with a hot toddy and a good book, goes to sleep early, and wakes up to read about another stunning blow to the Midgard patriarchy. Think I'll polish my nails now and bask in that second victory glow. It's good for the complexion. Some of y'all might want to try it."
I'm blaming the hot flashes on that. ;)
Okay. Time to suit up and go feed to nonexistent masses. NO ONE is coming out in this weather. If anything, it's going to be all Tarheel Takeout and web orders all day. Which is its own special kind of hell. There's a HUGE learning curve, and it really is easy to send someone out with the wrong food...ESPECIALLY when you're new. I honestly think that's the hardest part of FoH. We also get people who want to pay for ONE ITEM seperately, another who wants to do half cash/half credit (not that hard, but there are several hoops you have to jump through), someone wants to add something, someone wants to delete something and not pay for it (uh...not happening), and and and...
You get the picture. Hell, some of these orders are still stressful for me (there's one douchebro I see coming in and start looking for the nearest exit strategy. "Well, if I don't pay for this seperately, it costs me like, ten dollars of my per diem. oh, and I want to add a cookie and a drink." You order food from here at LEAST three times a week, dude. FIGURE IT THE FUCK OUT.)
*ahem* Time to put on my happy face. Wish me luck and happy Wednesday, y'all!
Ms. No Call, No Show got canned. I find it highly amusing that she had the same name and attitude as The Bully, who also got fired. Can we please quit hiring people with that name?
Another bad apple, chucked out of the barrel. Yay!
And life at work gets slightly more tolerable. :)