For Weeks 11/18/13 - 12/14/13
Fear: I have been having heart palpitations lately. The other day at work, I was walking past the desk and suddenly felt a heavy thump in my chest, followed by a moment of confusion, nausea, and pain. Then I had a pressure headache for about an hour, accompanied by the nausea and a little dizziness. It has happened several times since then, usually when I'm doing nothing more than walking across a room.
My niece had a 3-D ultrasound done. In it, the baby appears to have a harelip. My niece's father had a harelip, so it is completely possible. The doctor told my niece he thought it was just a shadow, as everything else about the baby is developing fine, but it's something we're worried about.
Disgust: My niece's boyfriend, who was living with my sister and my niece and refused to get a job, decided that, because he didn't want to get said job, he no longer believed he was the father of my niece's baby. You know what, though? He is. He has lived with them since before the baby was conceived. Man up! So, long story short, he left.
Customers who tell us their life stories: how this one plans to have sex and that's why she doesn't need to worry about her bra straps showing; how that one needs red patent pumps and a leopard-print miniskirt because she wants to make her ex-husband jealous at his mother's funeral; how another one's boyfriend, twenty years her junior, needs therapy and tells us the three-hour story (I'm not kidding) of his life, from how his father treated him to how she met him, to how she got her dog, to how her cousin's brother-in-law's neighbor had a dog just like hers (seriously), to the dog she had when she was five, to what her father told her when she was five, etc.
Sadness: My body acne is back. I imagine how disgusted a man would be if he wanted to caress my shoulders and they aren't smooth but instead bumpy, bloody, and scarred. It is also physically painful, wearing a bra or moving in just the wrong way so something rubs against my skin. I've tried it all, too, to solve this problem, from antibiotics to antibacterial soap, to medicated lotion, to toothpaste, and beyond.
Watching my father try to open a package of deli-sliced ham. He just kept turning it round and round because my mother told him one corner was split so it would pull open, but he couldn't see which corner that was. Eventually my mother just took it and made his sandwiches herself.
Anger: D-I-V-O-R-C-E. It is ugly. UGLY. Neither my brother nor his wife are willing to compromise. My SIL is declaring she shouldn't be responsible for any of the debts accrued during their marriage, because during a marriage it is the man's place to make enough money to pay the bills, and that a woman shouldn't have to work if she doesn't want to, and that her money should be hers alone. I'm not even kidding, that's what she said. My brother is declaring he won't be celebrating Christmas AT ALL because he only gets his daughter from noon on Christmas Eve until 9:00 a.m. on Christmas Day, and that's not fair. Except, YES IT IS. We can be Germans for one day. It's nothing more than a made-up arbitrary day, for Christ's sake!
The Veteran's Association. A customer at work, who has a slight limp, told us he is getting 100% VA support, even though he has a job and is capable of providing for himself. My father gets 20%. Even though he had a stroke, is blind in one eye, has diabetes, and is incapable of getting a job at this time. The VA has told us they might consider my father for 60%. Another veteran, who was in the office at the VA clinic when my parents were there, told my mom he was also getting 100%. My mom asked him what was wrong, and he said, "Nothing."
Happiness: Surprise! One day at work, while I was ringing a customer, Dig that Crazy Santa Claus started playing. Maybe because I call in every year and complain about how depressing the Christmas music is, and how they need more upbeat songs, and how if I hear five versions of Last Christmas this time I might lose my shit. Or maybe they read this blog. If so, please fix the other issues I have written about. Meanwhile, every time the line "all the little hepcats jump for joy" plays I do just that.
Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto came on the radio the other day, and so I texted my friend just those words. She texted back with, "mata au hi made." Because she just knew.
Surprise: Out of the blue, a professor I had in my very first semester of college friended me on Facebook. We are going to dinner this weekend as he'll be around this area. I used to hang around his office and bug the crap out of him. Seems he didn't mind.
A woman I know has five daughters. She and her husband tried for a boy for years to no avail (well, to the avail of the three youngest daughters). Finally, they stopped trying, sold all of their baby stuff, and moved on. Yep, guess what? They decided not to find out the sex until the baby was delivered. It's a boy. He is about four months old now and I just got to see him for the first time. He...does not look like either of them. The daughters each look either exactly like their mother or exactly like their father (to uncanny levels). This boy...is a little round ball of surprise all around.
Randomness: On my days off, I have no concept of time. It can be 9:00 a.m and I will think, "I have the whole day!" The next minute it is 2:00 p.m. Several hours of reading blogs/using Pinterest/watching Youtube later I drag myself into the shower.
I am embarrassed for so-called "fangirls" and "fanboys." When I see the obsession-ridden way they waste hours of their lives debating whether Sephiroth or Ganandorf is the greatest video game villain of all time, or what the exact coordinates of Superman's fortress must be, or how it would be impossible for Star Wars and Star Trek to take place in the same universe because an actor who played an alien in the background of the first movie of the former also played an Admiral in the background of one episode of the TV series of the latter, I cry a little for them but then I shout, "Who cares?" Then I spend my time productively by reading a 100+ post discussion of the exact height of Tim Gunn.
December 19, 2013
November 18, 2013
The Short, Short Version #5
Week Ending 11/17/2013
Fear: The electrical sockets have been shorting out and sparking lately, and I live with people stupid enough to say, out loud, "If it hasn't caught fire yet, it won't."
Disgust: Several members of my family play an interesting musical instrument called the Hacking Cough Bagpipes. These are instruments grown in the pectoral area, and notes are produced by smoking, living in filth, running around outside in the snow with no shirt, and hysterical overreactions to daily events. Pitch and force are determined by size, vocal structure, and body strength. It is amazing to hear the symphony at night.
Sadness: Another year, another Christmas CD at work with no Dig that Crazy Santa Claus.
Anger: The vet. I could not get a hold of the vet for almost two weeks, and when I left a message that she didn't get for days, she told me to make sure next time to leave a message with a real person. I told her several times that I called over and over, and no one picked up, and so how was I supposed to do so? Her response was just, well, keep calling. And I was like, no, this isn't my fault. Then she told me to e-mail her, because she would definitely get that, and so I did, and she claimed she didn't see it for, like, 36 hours.
Happiness: "IT'S THE EYE OF THE TIGER / IT'S THE THRILL OF THE FIGHT / RISING UP TO THE CHALLENGE OF OUR RIVAL / AND THE LAST KNOWN SURVIVOR STALKS HIS PREY IN THE NIGHT / AND HE'S WATCHING US ALL WITH THE EYE...OF THE TIGER!" Sung as loudly as that in the car when it came on and I was able to hear the WHOLE song.
Surprise: I have outgrown skulls, horror, goth, etc. I still gravitate toward punk rock looks, but more sophisticated. I am disappointed in half of my wardrobe. I need to be more picky and yet more open-minded, because lately clothes I would have rolled my eyes at five years ago are super flattering and adorable.
Randomness: In the Zombie Apocalypse, I will be the first to go. Babies bite me whenever I pick them up, and children and even grown, random adults have told me how good I smell. I have had customers lean in to smell me, or pet me, or play with my hair. I am frequently asked what my perfume is, and when I say I'm not wearing perfume, there is a glint, a gleam, as they imagine how delicious I am.
Fear: The electrical sockets have been shorting out and sparking lately, and I live with people stupid enough to say, out loud, "If it hasn't caught fire yet, it won't."
Disgust: Several members of my family play an interesting musical instrument called the Hacking Cough Bagpipes. These are instruments grown in the pectoral area, and notes are produced by smoking, living in filth, running around outside in the snow with no shirt, and hysterical overreactions to daily events. Pitch and force are determined by size, vocal structure, and body strength. It is amazing to hear the symphony at night.
Sadness: Another year, another Christmas CD at work with no Dig that Crazy Santa Claus.
Anger: The vet. I could not get a hold of the vet for almost two weeks, and when I left a message that she didn't get for days, she told me to make sure next time to leave a message with a real person. I told her several times that I called over and over, and no one picked up, and so how was I supposed to do so? Her response was just, well, keep calling. And I was like, no, this isn't my fault. Then she told me to e-mail her, because she would definitely get that, and so I did, and she claimed she didn't see it for, like, 36 hours.
Happiness: "IT'S THE EYE OF THE TIGER / IT'S THE THRILL OF THE FIGHT / RISING UP TO THE CHALLENGE OF OUR RIVAL / AND THE LAST KNOWN SURVIVOR STALKS HIS PREY IN THE NIGHT / AND HE'S WATCHING US ALL WITH THE EYE...OF THE TIGER!" Sung as loudly as that in the car when it came on and I was able to hear the WHOLE song.
Surprise: I have outgrown skulls, horror, goth, etc. I still gravitate toward punk rock looks, but more sophisticated. I am disappointed in half of my wardrobe. I need to be more picky and yet more open-minded, because lately clothes I would have rolled my eyes at five years ago are super flattering and adorable.
Randomness: In the Zombie Apocalypse, I will be the first to go. Babies bite me whenever I pick them up, and children and even grown, random adults have told me how good I smell. I have had customers lean in to smell me, or pet me, or play with my hair. I am frequently asked what my perfume is, and when I say I'm not wearing perfume, there is a glint, a gleam, as they imagine how delicious I am.
November 12, 2013
The Short, Short Version #4
Week Ending 11/10/2013
Fear: I have made friends with a customer from my work. She gives me presents now for Christmas. Now, I have to be worried that this might be conceived of as "tipping" and that I could be reprimanded/fired over it. But, I wonder, if my friends from before I worked at this job came in and shopped, would they have to stop giving me Christmas presents because now, technically, they are customers? It's such a fine line.
Disgust: If you are a size XS/0 and a shirt fits "tight," and you tell me you wish you could put it on a fat girl so it would stretch out and fit you, I will be mentally punching you.
Sadness: My step-niece, who was still bringing her baby over for us to see, has stopped doing so. It is both my mother's fault and her mother's fault (my sister-in-law). My mother won't stop grilling her with questions about where her mother is living, and her mother doesn't think she needs any other family.
Anger: Long ago my boss forced a woman (whom I LOVED) to quit because this woman was requesting too many days off a month. She told her she couldn't have set days and that she couldn't "dictate" her own schedule. Cut to two years later, where two girls just got hired with the promise of set days and they are already requesting off here, there, everywhere.
Happiness: I finally got a letter where a customer called in to the company and gave me a compliment. Everyone else at work, even teenage girls who have only worked there for, like, a week, have gotten letters. But not me. In eight years. Even though my manager has told me before that absolutely no one receives more compliments (by word of mouth) than I do. Sometimes it's nice to get that little extra validation.
Surprise: There is a man who comes into my work to buy women's jeans. At first he told us they were for his wife, but eventually he admitted they were for him. Men's jeans don't fit him. He is...interesting. But I applaud a man who can admit what he needs and not be ashamed. Now, he comes in, chats us up, calls us Darling, but he is clearly not a homosexual. This is an important fact, because I think it is up to everyone to break down gender barriers.
Randomness: I will criticize the lyrics of your songs, singers. Make sure none of them are a stupid as "I bet you think this song is about you" or "But who cares? She walks like Rihanna!"
P.S. - There were a lot of issues with work this week!
Fear: I have made friends with a customer from my work. She gives me presents now for Christmas. Now, I have to be worried that this might be conceived of as "tipping" and that I could be reprimanded/fired over it. But, I wonder, if my friends from before I worked at this job came in and shopped, would they have to stop giving me Christmas presents because now, technically, they are customers? It's such a fine line.
Disgust: If you are a size XS/0 and a shirt fits "tight," and you tell me you wish you could put it on a fat girl so it would stretch out and fit you, I will be mentally punching you.
Sadness: My step-niece, who was still bringing her baby over for us to see, has stopped doing so. It is both my mother's fault and her mother's fault (my sister-in-law). My mother won't stop grilling her with questions about where her mother is living, and her mother doesn't think she needs any other family.
Anger: Long ago my boss forced a woman (whom I LOVED) to quit because this woman was requesting too many days off a month. She told her she couldn't have set days and that she couldn't "dictate" her own schedule. Cut to two years later, where two girls just got hired with the promise of set days and they are already requesting off here, there, everywhere.
Happiness: I finally got a letter where a customer called in to the company and gave me a compliment. Everyone else at work, even teenage girls who have only worked there for, like, a week, have gotten letters. But not me. In eight years. Even though my manager has told me before that absolutely no one receives more compliments (by word of mouth) than I do. Sometimes it's nice to get that little extra validation.
Surprise: There is a man who comes into my work to buy women's jeans. At first he told us they were for his wife, but eventually he admitted they were for him. Men's jeans don't fit him. He is...interesting. But I applaud a man who can admit what he needs and not be ashamed. Now, he comes in, chats us up, calls us Darling, but he is clearly not a homosexual. This is an important fact, because I think it is up to everyone to break down gender barriers.
Randomness: I will criticize the lyrics of your songs, singers. Make sure none of them are a stupid as "I bet you think this song is about you" or "But who cares? She walks like Rihanna!"
P.S. - There were a lot of issues with work this week!
November 4, 2013
The Short, Short Version #3
Week Ending 11/3/2013
Fear: I have a tiny chip in one of my front teeth. It is also slightly stained, so that when I look in the mirror I constantly worry it is a cavity and that, like my mother and sisters before me, I will someday be a toothless hillbilly. This week, something got caught in the chip and made it look THAT MUCH worse and I freaked out and almost started crying in the bathroom at work. Then I ran my tongue over it and it went back 'normal'.
Disgust: I don't want to see pictures of the boil on your ass, Brother.
Sadness: My father used to surprise me at work with a chicken sandwich and an orange float from Wendy's, usually on Sundays. Last Sunday, when I was kinda hungry and we were busy and I wasn't sure when I'd get to run out for lunch, I started wishing he would show up again. But...he won't. Possibly ever again. Because he's blind in one eye now and he can't drive and it's sad, the little things I never thought would come to an end.
Anger: A few years ago, my brother found a camera in the park and turned it into the police. No one claimed it and so they let my brother keep it. He found out it was worth around $2000. It was the find of a lifetime. He loved that camera. He had hundreds of pictures on it. This week, he set it down on a table in our living room and - POOF! - it was gone. Of course we can't prove who stole it, but it's obvious and frustrating and after everything he's going through right now it just broke his heart.
Happiness: We got an extra discount on ONE sweater this week and I hemmed and hawed over what sweater to buy, because I'm not much of a sweater girl. I decided to buy this long black cardigan with a long printed lapel. It is the BEST DECISION EVER. Warm, comfortable, and I feel like Janis Joplin. Now, Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?
Surprise: I found out on Facebook that some friends of mine had a second child. Like, he's a year-and-a-half or something. Am I that dysfunctional? Maybe...I should look into some therapy for my extreme anti-social behavioral issues.
Randomness: I can't tell whether cars coming at me have their high beams on. I also can't tell whether they're flashing their lights at me. It is all so bright and every time they hit bumps it looks like the lights are flashing and I begin wondering what's wrong with my car and when I'm going to blow up.
Fear: I have a tiny chip in one of my front teeth. It is also slightly stained, so that when I look in the mirror I constantly worry it is a cavity and that, like my mother and sisters before me, I will someday be a toothless hillbilly. This week, something got caught in the chip and made it look THAT MUCH worse and I freaked out and almost started crying in the bathroom at work. Then I ran my tongue over it and it went back 'normal'.
Disgust: I don't want to see pictures of the boil on your ass, Brother.
Sadness: My father used to surprise me at work with a chicken sandwich and an orange float from Wendy's, usually on Sundays. Last Sunday, when I was kinda hungry and we were busy and I wasn't sure when I'd get to run out for lunch, I started wishing he would show up again. But...he won't. Possibly ever again. Because he's blind in one eye now and he can't drive and it's sad, the little things I never thought would come to an end.
Anger: A few years ago, my brother found a camera in the park and turned it into the police. No one claimed it and so they let my brother keep it. He found out it was worth around $2000. It was the find of a lifetime. He loved that camera. He had hundreds of pictures on it. This week, he set it down on a table in our living room and - POOF! - it was gone. Of course we can't prove who stole it, but it's obvious and frustrating and after everything he's going through right now it just broke his heart.
Happiness: We got an extra discount on ONE sweater this week and I hemmed and hawed over what sweater to buy, because I'm not much of a sweater girl. I decided to buy this long black cardigan with a long printed lapel. It is the BEST DECISION EVER. Warm, comfortable, and I feel like Janis Joplin. Now, Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?
Surprise: I found out on Facebook that some friends of mine had a second child. Like, he's a year-and-a-half or something. Am I that dysfunctional? Maybe...I should look into some therapy for my extreme anti-social behavioral issues.
Randomness: I can't tell whether cars coming at me have their high beams on. I also can't tell whether they're flashing their lights at me. It is all so bright and every time they hit bumps it looks like the lights are flashing and I begin wondering what's wrong with my car and when I'm going to blow up.
October 28, 2013
The Short, Short Version #2
Week ending 10/27/2013.
Fear: I can't sleep between 4:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. Why? Night Terrors. Often, outright hallucinations, usually about clothing, towels, and curtains. Patterns turn into faces, people in pictures move, a crumpled pair of jeans is really a demon. The truth is, for that hour, I watch the clock like a fucking maniac, because at 5:00 I will be safe again. Nothing can get me at 5:00 a.m.
Disgust: A frequent customer (who...does not have a rockin' body) came out of the fitting room on Tuesday wearing only her sweatshirt, her underwear, and a pair of cowboy boots she was trying on. She wanted to try other sizes in the boots. So she bent over to read box sizes and exchange between the sizes. Pink granny panties, FYI.
Sadness: A teenager called me middle-aged. She was talking to me and two other ladies. We are 34, 31, and 49 years old. The teenager was talking about technology, and said, "Middle-aged people like you all just didn't grow up with it like we did." I...don't want to be one of those women who can't face her age, but sometimes reminders creep up on me that I'm not exactly young anymore and that I need to get going with my life.
Anger: I have a plane ticket from Seattle to home. Not one from home to Seattle, though. Because at the time when I had just enough money for one ticket, the flights there numbered twenty and the flights back numbered five. I thought, I'd better secure a seat on one of those five planes and I'll have the money for one of the outgoing planes soon. Nope! That was June. Every time I have the money something happens. Is it a sign? I've never been on a vacation, not really, especially one on my own. I want this so badly.
Happiness: A real phone! With texting! I was tired of all these people around me, who have no jobs, who steal and sell other people's possessions for drug money, having phones worth hundreds of dollars while I had a five-year-old flip phone. So, I sucked it up and got a Smartphone. It isn't the greatest one out there, but it will do and it will do everything theirs will do without the hefty $600 or so price. How do they even get these phones? Whatever, it doesn't matter because now I have a real phone, too!
Surprise: The cat lady asked me to babysit her cats again while she's on vacation for a week. She pays well. This is at a time when I'm a little stretched, monetarily, and her offer was just amazing timing. She...always seems to make these offers at the exact time I need a little extra cash. It gives me pause.
Random Fact: If you want to kill me, lock me in a room with only canned food and an electric can opener. I do not understand how to work them. My mother once threw away all the manual can openers and that night we had to go buy a new one so I could open cans when no one else was home.
Fear: I can't sleep between 4:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. Why? Night Terrors. Often, outright hallucinations, usually about clothing, towels, and curtains. Patterns turn into faces, people in pictures move, a crumpled pair of jeans is really a demon. The truth is, for that hour, I watch the clock like a fucking maniac, because at 5:00 I will be safe again. Nothing can get me at 5:00 a.m.
Disgust: A frequent customer (who...does not have a rockin' body) came out of the fitting room on Tuesday wearing only her sweatshirt, her underwear, and a pair of cowboy boots she was trying on. She wanted to try other sizes in the boots. So she bent over to read box sizes and exchange between the sizes. Pink granny panties, FYI.
Sadness: A teenager called me middle-aged. She was talking to me and two other ladies. We are 34, 31, and 49 years old. The teenager was talking about technology, and said, "Middle-aged people like you all just didn't grow up with it like we did." I...don't want to be one of those women who can't face her age, but sometimes reminders creep up on me that I'm not exactly young anymore and that I need to get going with my life.
Anger: I have a plane ticket from Seattle to home. Not one from home to Seattle, though. Because at the time when I had just enough money for one ticket, the flights there numbered twenty and the flights back numbered five. I thought, I'd better secure a seat on one of those five planes and I'll have the money for one of the outgoing planes soon. Nope! That was June. Every time I have the money something happens. Is it a sign? I've never been on a vacation, not really, especially one on my own. I want this so badly.
Happiness: A real phone! With texting! I was tired of all these people around me, who have no jobs, who steal and sell other people's possessions for drug money, having phones worth hundreds of dollars while I had a five-year-old flip phone. So, I sucked it up and got a Smartphone. It isn't the greatest one out there, but it will do and it will do everything theirs will do without the hefty $600 or so price. How do they even get these phones? Whatever, it doesn't matter because now I have a real phone, too!
Surprise: The cat lady asked me to babysit her cats again while she's on vacation for a week. She pays well. This is at a time when I'm a little stretched, monetarily, and her offer was just amazing timing. She...always seems to make these offers at the exact time I need a little extra cash. It gives me pause.
Random Fact: If you want to kill me, lock me in a room with only canned food and an electric can opener. I do not understand how to work them. My mother once threw away all the manual can openers and that night we had to go buy a new one so I could open cans when no one else was home.
October 24, 2013
The Short, Short Version #1
Week ending 10/20/2013.
Yes, I end weeks on Sunday. Because Sunday is the last day of the week, not the first.
Fear: My father ran into a wall on Saturday and cut his head open. There were times on Sunday where we would ask him a question and he would just stare at us for a minute or so, then finally answer. I told my mom he could have a concussion, or even have brought on another stroke somehow. Did she take him to the ER? Nope. She let him sleep, a lot, for the next few days. Sleep.
Disgust: My nephew and my sister often don't flush the toilet. After doing #2. Because they do #2 before taking a shower, and they can't wait the thirty seconds it will take for the commode to stop interfering with the water. I imagine them jumping - leaping - from the toilet to the shower because they can't lose thirty seconds. Then they forget they did #2, and whoever goes in next has to take care of that.
Sadness: I cried and cried the day I thought for certain we were finally going to have to take the cat the Humane Society. After going for over a week without peeing on the steps, he suddenly peed on every one of them. Thursday morning I got up and bawled in the recliner, clutching the cat, and it was an ugly, snotty, hitching, long sobbing session. But he's still here.
Anger: So, I'm a homebody. I like to read, write, play video games, surf the net, etc. I'm quiet and introverted and that's what I enjoy and what boils my blood is when people make snide comments about my hobbies. The other day, Fucking Janet was talking to a friend of hers who had made a cute scarf after seeing how-to on Pinterest. So Fucking Janet asked me, "Don't you go on Pinterest?" Yes. So she said, "Well, I don't have time to just sit in front of my computer doing nothing." I told her lots of people do it from their phone and that a friend of ours who has three jobs is on there way more than I am. Janet just rolled her eyes and asked who has time to do nothing like that? Then later, our boss and her boss told Janet they go on Pinterest, and guess who asked me to help her set up an account and who denied that she ever made fun of it when I called her out on being two-faced?
Happiness: (There was a long, depressing silence as I thought hard about this.) The cat is still here. (Another pause as I decide there must be something else.) (Oh!) I finally bought the dry erase board / cork board combo I've been wanting at the local department store. I have monthly, weekly, and daily goals. One monthly goal is reading at least 5 books (it is thusly underlined on the dry erase board). Weekly goals include writing so many pages, reading the Profile in the New Yorker, summarizing reading notes in my journal. A particular daily goal is making sure I log into Facebook. Once.
Surprise: My eighteen-year-old niece wants a sex-change operation. That's fine by me, whatever makes her comfortable in her own skin. But, if you are going to reinvent yourself, and you can choose any name in the world, why...Brandon?
Yes, I end weeks on Sunday. Because Sunday is the last day of the week, not the first.
Fear: My father ran into a wall on Saturday and cut his head open. There were times on Sunday where we would ask him a question and he would just stare at us for a minute or so, then finally answer. I told my mom he could have a concussion, or even have brought on another stroke somehow. Did she take him to the ER? Nope. She let him sleep, a lot, for the next few days. Sleep.
Disgust: My nephew and my sister often don't flush the toilet. After doing #2. Because they do #2 before taking a shower, and they can't wait the thirty seconds it will take for the commode to stop interfering with the water. I imagine them jumping - leaping - from the toilet to the shower because they can't lose thirty seconds. Then they forget they did #2, and whoever goes in next has to take care of that.
Sadness: I cried and cried the day I thought for certain we were finally going to have to take the cat the Humane Society. After going for over a week without peeing on the steps, he suddenly peed on every one of them. Thursday morning I got up and bawled in the recliner, clutching the cat, and it was an ugly, snotty, hitching, long sobbing session. But he's still here.
Anger: So, I'm a homebody. I like to read, write, play video games, surf the net, etc. I'm quiet and introverted and that's what I enjoy and what boils my blood is when people make snide comments about my hobbies. The other day, Fucking Janet was talking to a friend of hers who had made a cute scarf after seeing how-to on Pinterest. So Fucking Janet asked me, "Don't you go on Pinterest?" Yes. So she said, "Well, I don't have time to just sit in front of my computer doing nothing." I told her lots of people do it from their phone and that a friend of ours who has three jobs is on there way more than I am. Janet just rolled her eyes and asked who has time to do nothing like that? Then later, our boss and her boss told Janet they go on Pinterest, and guess who asked me to help her set up an account and who denied that she ever made fun of it when I called her out on being two-faced?
Happiness: (There was a long, depressing silence as I thought hard about this.) The cat is still here. (Another pause as I decide there must be something else.) (Oh!) I finally bought the dry erase board / cork board combo I've been wanting at the local department store. I have monthly, weekly, and daily goals. One monthly goal is reading at least 5 books (it is thusly underlined on the dry erase board). Weekly goals include writing so many pages, reading the Profile in the New Yorker, summarizing reading notes in my journal. A particular daily goal is making sure I log into Facebook. Once.
Surprise: My eighteen-year-old niece wants a sex-change operation. That's fine by me, whatever makes her comfortable in her own skin. But, if you are going to reinvent yourself, and you can choose any name in the world, why...Brandon?
September 9, 2013
Furry Babies
I just got back from taking the cat to the vet. He has lost a ton of weight, he has no energy, he keeps peeing all over the stairs (on every single step), and he cannot get enough to eat. We had called a vet a few weeks ago but couldn't afford the up-front payment they wanted to even look at him. They told us that they wouldn't even waste their time with an office visit because it wouldn't tell them anything, and that we would need to drop him off and have him boarded while they ran all of the tests they wanted to run. Just to board him was, like, $300. And they wouldn't accept payment plans and that didn't even include follow-up or treatment, etc.
So I was devastated, because particularly with my father's stroke and all the extra expenses that has brought, I didn't have the money to just drop the cat off and not even know how much more they would be charging me before I could have him back. So we tried to deal with the problems and steal ourselves up for possibly having to put him down.
Then a co-worker found a new vet for her own pets and recommended this woman to me. The office visit was only $25 and they agreed to see him ASAP. She was very nice and took me right in to the office even though I was almost an hour early. She looked him over, asked a few questions, drew some blood, explained the most likely problems (diabetes and hyperthyroid), and explained the most likely treatments. All of that for half of the amount the other vet wanted to even LOOK at him.
The new vet called the cat an old man before he was even out of the carrier and that was funny. He is an old man. She could immediately see he is developing cataracts. He is skinny and kind of reedy but she said that's not entirely uncommon in elder cats. She told me he shouldn't eat wet food, but if that's all he'll eat then that's that. I've been told by multiple vets a variety of things, from no dry food to no wet food to always mix them, so at this point I'm just going to feed him what he'll eat. Which is, actually, a can of wet food mixed with handful of dry food.
She told me it is probably diabetes based on the description of his peeing on the carpet and the amount of pee (Lord! does he pee buckets). She said the hyperthyroid is usually accompanied by vomiting and diarrhea, and he has neither. It could be a mixture of his thyroid and diabetes, though.
The only time the new vet made me a little angry was when she asked me if the cat had problems with fleas. My cat has never had fleas. She looked doubtful, like she thought I was lying, and pointed out that he had several scabs where it looked like he had been biting himself "to death." I told her he had always had fall allergies and that my previous vet told me the past few summers and falls had been very bad for....
And here she interrupted me to say, "Fleas, yeah." And I was really annoyed, and said, "No, bad for allergies." She just kind of shrugged, as if to say I was kidding myself or possibly lying to her. She kept combing him and explaining what happens when cats get fleas and I was like, have you found any evidence of fleas yet? And guess what? She never did find any evidence of fleas. Ever.
So she drew blood and that was it. She had me leave the room while she drew the blood and when I came back she exclaimed, "When we flipped him over he was bald on his belly! Is that recent, too?" I told her he had been bald since he was neutered eleven years ago. She just kind of furrowed her brow and said, "Hmmm, really?" but not in a kind of fun surprised way, but like I was lying again. Because it would be further evidence of him scratching his fleas, you know?
But overall I'm pleased. He will most likely need insulin shots twice a day. She told me it would be kind of expensive each month and I told her that it wasn't the fact that I needed to pay for medication/food/etc. but that the other vet wanted a huge amount up-front and all at once. If I have to pay $50 a month for some special medicine that's fine. But $300-$500 minimum without knowledge of what they were going to do or when they would do it or if I could get my cat back if I couldn't pay for what they did behind my back? That's what I couldn't afford.
So I was devastated, because particularly with my father's stroke and all the extra expenses that has brought, I didn't have the money to just drop the cat off and not even know how much more they would be charging me before I could have him back. So we tried to deal with the problems and steal ourselves up for possibly having to put him down.
Then a co-worker found a new vet for her own pets and recommended this woman to me. The office visit was only $25 and they agreed to see him ASAP. She was very nice and took me right in to the office even though I was almost an hour early. She looked him over, asked a few questions, drew some blood, explained the most likely problems (diabetes and hyperthyroid), and explained the most likely treatments. All of that for half of the amount the other vet wanted to even LOOK at him.
The new vet called the cat an old man before he was even out of the carrier and that was funny. He is an old man. She could immediately see he is developing cataracts. He is skinny and kind of reedy but she said that's not entirely uncommon in elder cats. She told me he shouldn't eat wet food, but if that's all he'll eat then that's that. I've been told by multiple vets a variety of things, from no dry food to no wet food to always mix them, so at this point I'm just going to feed him what he'll eat. Which is, actually, a can of wet food mixed with handful of dry food.
She told me it is probably diabetes based on the description of his peeing on the carpet and the amount of pee (Lord! does he pee buckets). She said the hyperthyroid is usually accompanied by vomiting and diarrhea, and he has neither. It could be a mixture of his thyroid and diabetes, though.
The only time the new vet made me a little angry was when she asked me if the cat had problems with fleas. My cat has never had fleas. She looked doubtful, like she thought I was lying, and pointed out that he had several scabs where it looked like he had been biting himself "to death." I told her he had always had fall allergies and that my previous vet told me the past few summers and falls had been very bad for....
And here she interrupted me to say, "Fleas, yeah." And I was really annoyed, and said, "No, bad for allergies." She just kind of shrugged, as if to say I was kidding myself or possibly lying to her. She kept combing him and explaining what happens when cats get fleas and I was like, have you found any evidence of fleas yet? And guess what? She never did find any evidence of fleas. Ever.
So she drew blood and that was it. She had me leave the room while she drew the blood and when I came back she exclaimed, "When we flipped him over he was bald on his belly! Is that recent, too?" I told her he had been bald since he was neutered eleven years ago. She just kind of furrowed her brow and said, "Hmmm, really?" but not in a kind of fun surprised way, but like I was lying again. Because it would be further evidence of him scratching his fleas, you know?
But overall I'm pleased. He will most likely need insulin shots twice a day. She told me it would be kind of expensive each month and I told her that it wasn't the fact that I needed to pay for medication/food/etc. but that the other vet wanted a huge amount up-front and all at once. If I have to pay $50 a month for some special medicine that's fine. But $300-$500 minimum without knowledge of what they were going to do or when they would do it or if I could get my cat back if I couldn't pay for what they did behind my back? That's what I couldn't afford.
July 31, 2013
Patience
Boy, are we going to learn patience.
My father was moved to a regular room last night. I got out of work late and had to go the grocery store afterward, so I called him at about 11:00 p.m. to see how he was doing. He kept asking me to bring him his computer and some toilet paper. I tried to explain that he couldn't have his computer (a desktop) because there was nowhere to put his huge tower. I didn't even comment on the toilet paper. I explained that we would see about finding him a laptop. He asked me if I was on my way with it and I told him I wouldn't be able to come see him until the next day. He said okay, said "I love you," and hung up.
So today....
We drove to the hospital. We had a laptop with a mouse, because I knew he wouldn't be able to use the laptop's scrolling mouse. That was the first thing he asked about when we came in. "Where's my computer?" We explained that we had called the hospital to ask them if he could have his desktop and of course they had said no, but they said he could have a laptop. He asked why he couldn't have a desktop. We explained, again, that there was nowhere to put the tower because it was bulky and if they needed to move it quickly they wouldn't be able to. He said they could put it on the table, the rolling table that he eats off of and then they could just roll it away. We told him that wasn't an option and he looked like he was going to cry. He stared off into space and almost started crying.
We tried to show him how to use the laptop. He couldn't figure out where the keyboard was, even when I would point to it. He just kept asking me how he was supposed to find the 'H' and 'I' keys when he didn't know where they were. He just wanted to type 'HI.' I had tried to show him how to turn it on and how to use the mouse, but the mouse was too fast and he couldn't get it to move slowly and so finally he just said, "Why can't you just get me to my poker? There's no reason you can't do it for me." So I did it, but he couldn't even type the word 'HI.' I asked him what he would do if I wasn't there to get him to his poker and he couldn't answer. So, the laptop came right back home with us.
Then he complained, loudly and often, about the fact that the nurse told him she would bring him a roast beef sandwich, and he was expecting a sandwich from Arby's and what they brought was an open-faced roast beef sandwich on white bread. Then he started asking us to bring him some food, and when we explained that we couldn't because his diet is restricted, he started accusing us of just not wanting to be bothered with doing something for him, and calling us lazy, and explaining to us how easy it would be and that we needed to just go do it. We spent an entire two hours arguing this point with him.
Then we ordered him some fish for dinner. He actually ate that fairly well, but did complain that it wasn't from Long John Silvers.
As we were leaving, he asked us if we were going to bring him some real food when we come back tomorrow. We told him we'd ask the doctor what we might be able to bring him and he said he knew we wouldn't really bring him anything. We just told him we loved him and left.
Earlier this week, Fucking Janet (her new official name) made a comment about how if it was her dad, she'd be there every minute of every day and no job or amount of money or whatever would stop her. But you know what? It was really hard being there today. It was harder being there. Because he was frustrating, and he can't help it, but sometimes he was rude to us and to the nurse and it was hard not to snap at him a little. And because he doesn't understand what's happened, and because he thinks he's been there for months, and because watching him trying move the mouse or type the word 'HI' was really sad.
What if he's like this forever? What if he will never again be able to even push a button? My mother said with physical therapy his motor skills will come back, but what about his memory? He told us the same story about the Arby's sandwich several times today, each time like he was telling it for the first time. He couldn't remember what shrimp were called. He couldn't remember the word 'biscuit.' He kept calling my niece by my name. He kept asking where I had gone.
I keep trying not to ask that question back.
My father was moved to a regular room last night. I got out of work late and had to go the grocery store afterward, so I called him at about 11:00 p.m. to see how he was doing. He kept asking me to bring him his computer and some toilet paper. I tried to explain that he couldn't have his computer (a desktop) because there was nowhere to put his huge tower. I didn't even comment on the toilet paper. I explained that we would see about finding him a laptop. He asked me if I was on my way with it and I told him I wouldn't be able to come see him until the next day. He said okay, said "I love you," and hung up.
So today....
We drove to the hospital. We had a laptop with a mouse, because I knew he wouldn't be able to use the laptop's scrolling mouse. That was the first thing he asked about when we came in. "Where's my computer?" We explained that we had called the hospital to ask them if he could have his desktop and of course they had said no, but they said he could have a laptop. He asked why he couldn't have a desktop. We explained, again, that there was nowhere to put the tower because it was bulky and if they needed to move it quickly they wouldn't be able to. He said they could put it on the table, the rolling table that he eats off of and then they could just roll it away. We told him that wasn't an option and he looked like he was going to cry. He stared off into space and almost started crying.
We tried to show him how to use the laptop. He couldn't figure out where the keyboard was, even when I would point to it. He just kept asking me how he was supposed to find the 'H' and 'I' keys when he didn't know where they were. He just wanted to type 'HI.' I had tried to show him how to turn it on and how to use the mouse, but the mouse was too fast and he couldn't get it to move slowly and so finally he just said, "Why can't you just get me to my poker? There's no reason you can't do it for me." So I did it, but he couldn't even type the word 'HI.' I asked him what he would do if I wasn't there to get him to his poker and he couldn't answer. So, the laptop came right back home with us.
Then he complained, loudly and often, about the fact that the nurse told him she would bring him a roast beef sandwich, and he was expecting a sandwich from Arby's and what they brought was an open-faced roast beef sandwich on white bread. Then he started asking us to bring him some food, and when we explained that we couldn't because his diet is restricted, he started accusing us of just not wanting to be bothered with doing something for him, and calling us lazy, and explaining to us how easy it would be and that we needed to just go do it. We spent an entire two hours arguing this point with him.
Then we ordered him some fish for dinner. He actually ate that fairly well, but did complain that it wasn't from Long John Silvers.
As we were leaving, he asked us if we were going to bring him some real food when we come back tomorrow. We told him we'd ask the doctor what we might be able to bring him and he said he knew we wouldn't really bring him anything. We just told him we loved him and left.
Earlier this week, Fucking Janet (her new official name) made a comment about how if it was her dad, she'd be there every minute of every day and no job or amount of money or whatever would stop her. But you know what? It was really hard being there today. It was harder being there. Because he was frustrating, and he can't help it, but sometimes he was rude to us and to the nurse and it was hard not to snap at him a little. And because he doesn't understand what's happened, and because he thinks he's been there for months, and because watching him trying move the mouse or type the word 'HI' was really sad.
What if he's like this forever? What if he will never again be able to even push a button? My mother said with physical therapy his motor skills will come back, but what about his memory? He told us the same story about the Arby's sandwich several times today, each time like he was telling it for the first time. He couldn't remember what shrimp were called. He couldn't remember the word 'biscuit.' He kept calling my niece by my name. He kept asking where I had gone.
I keep trying not to ask that question back.
July 27, 2013
Hospital Etiquette
Lesson #1 -
It isn't about you.
I went to see my father today. Yesterday, at about 1:00 p.m., he went to get in his car and felt sick, then realized he could not get back into the house and laid down in the back seat. A neighbor saw him and came to tell my mom there was something wrong. He'd had a stroke.
He was transferred to a bigger hospital. I drove my mom and sister down to see him in the neural critical care unit. He was somewhat responsive. He threw up several times. We asked for a popsicle and that seemed to make him feel better. He slept and we just kind of talked quietly amongst ourselves and read.
Then, a woman who has only just rekindled a relationship with my mother decided she HAD to come to the hospital. This is the wife of the brother of my mother's ex-husband. Yeah. And when my sister was in the hospital earlier this year, this woman realized she knew my sister, that she remembered her from when my sister was little, and wanted to get back in touch with my family.
Fine. That's fine. But now is not the time to try to be the center of attention. When she called us, we were at the hospital, and when she asked my mother if she could come my mother told her yes. I was in the background mouthing to my mother to say "no" because my father was not going to want her there right now. After my mother hung up, she asked my father if it was okay and he said, "As long as she doesn't talk too much."
Enter this woman. Talking loudly. Talking about things that we couldn't care less about. Some girl's wedding. Some picnic. Some fight she was having with someone. LOUDLY. Her husband sat down in a rolling chair and accidentally went flying, knocking into my father's IV pole.
In the middle of this, my father suddenly said, "I want to be alone." I knew this would happen. Then he starting telling the nurse he wanted to sit on the commode, so he could be alone. The nurse told him he didn't need to sit on the commode because he needed to use the bed pan, but I understood that "the commode" at home would be a place he would escape to where no one would bother him. So pretty much right after they got there we all had to leave.
Then we got downstairs and I said I was going to go get my car and bring it around because it was on the third floor of the parking garage. This woman said, "I don't understand why." I was like, "What part of that is confusing?" "You can't bring it here." (At that very moment we were standing near the elevators kind of far from the entrance.) "By the time I get to the parking garage, get up three flights of stairs, and pay for parking you all will be right there at the entrance and it will be convenient for everyone." "Well, I just don't understand. Are you parked in the green garage? So are we." "Yes, that's where I'm parked, and I just want to go get the car." "Well, wait, well, why?" And at that I just walked away.
BECAUSE I WANT TO AND I'M 34 YEARS OLD. And because it isn't about you. And I don't know you. And because I'm pissed that you upset my father and he asked everyone to leave.
Moral: Be the help someone needs, not the help YOU want to be.
It isn't about you.
I went to see my father today. Yesterday, at about 1:00 p.m., he went to get in his car and felt sick, then realized he could not get back into the house and laid down in the back seat. A neighbor saw him and came to tell my mom there was something wrong. He'd had a stroke.
He was transferred to a bigger hospital. I drove my mom and sister down to see him in the neural critical care unit. He was somewhat responsive. He threw up several times. We asked for a popsicle and that seemed to make him feel better. He slept and we just kind of talked quietly amongst ourselves and read.
Then, a woman who has only just rekindled a relationship with my mother decided she HAD to come to the hospital. This is the wife of the brother of my mother's ex-husband. Yeah. And when my sister was in the hospital earlier this year, this woman realized she knew my sister, that she remembered her from when my sister was little, and wanted to get back in touch with my family.
Fine. That's fine. But now is not the time to try to be the center of attention. When she called us, we were at the hospital, and when she asked my mother if she could come my mother told her yes. I was in the background mouthing to my mother to say "no" because my father was not going to want her there right now. After my mother hung up, she asked my father if it was okay and he said, "As long as she doesn't talk too much."
Enter this woman. Talking loudly. Talking about things that we couldn't care less about. Some girl's wedding. Some picnic. Some fight she was having with someone. LOUDLY. Her husband sat down in a rolling chair and accidentally went flying, knocking into my father's IV pole.
In the middle of this, my father suddenly said, "I want to be alone." I knew this would happen. Then he starting telling the nurse he wanted to sit on the commode, so he could be alone. The nurse told him he didn't need to sit on the commode because he needed to use the bed pan, but I understood that "the commode" at home would be a place he would escape to where no one would bother him. So pretty much right after they got there we all had to leave.
Then we got downstairs and I said I was going to go get my car and bring it around because it was on the third floor of the parking garage. This woman said, "I don't understand why." I was like, "What part of that is confusing?" "You can't bring it here." (At that very moment we were standing near the elevators kind of far from the entrance.) "By the time I get to the parking garage, get up three flights of stairs, and pay for parking you all will be right there at the entrance and it will be convenient for everyone." "Well, I just don't understand. Are you parked in the green garage? So are we." "Yes, that's where I'm parked, and I just want to go get the car." "Well, wait, well, why?" And at that I just walked away.
BECAUSE I WANT TO AND I'M 34 YEARS OLD. And because it isn't about you. And I don't know you. And because I'm pissed that you upset my father and he asked everyone to leave.
Moral: Be the help someone needs, not the help YOU want to be.
July 22, 2013
Quick News from My Life
In a nutshell: One of my nieces (22) gave birth to a baby girl. My nephew (18) (with whom I've had quite a troubled past) moved to Missouri on a whim last week. He was supposed to be going on a two-week vacation with his girlfriend but instead he decided to never come back. For now. Another of my nieces (20) found out this morning she is pregnant.
I'm going to choose to believe this is a blessing, this latest pregnancy. Earlier this year, my sister was hospitalized with Spinal Meningitis due to an infection near her spinal cord that allowed the virus to enter her bloodstream. The infection spread to her brain. After six weeks of intense antibiotics and surgeries the Meningitis cleared up and she was able to go home.
She has permanent brain damage affecting her short-term and long-term memory. She suddenly can't remember what she was doing (which can be dangerous if she's cooking or even showering). She can't remember what she was saying. She can't remember her childhood. The doctor says her short-term memory will probably right itself. But her long-term memory may be gone forever.
It has also been recommended that she have plastic surgery to repair the hole in her back causing bacteria access to her spinal cord. If she does so, she will have to enter a nursing home for six weeks, and she will not be allowed to sit up for the first four weeks. If she does so, it will at least cut the chances that something as life-threatening could happen again as easily. If she does not do this, infections will continue to weaken her immune system. She is, of course, refusing to have this surgery.
So, time is slipping away. Memories are slipping away. Maybe a little bit of happiness is what she needs, and maybe a grandchild will bring her some happiness. I'm choosing to believe this. Her other daughter (18 this week) will most likely never have children, so this may be my sister's one shot at ever seeing her grandchildren. Maybe, knowing that a baby is on the way, one she'll want to watch grow up, maybe she'll change her mind about having the surgery. I'm choosing to hope for this.
I'm going to choose to believe this is a blessing, this latest pregnancy. Earlier this year, my sister was hospitalized with Spinal Meningitis due to an infection near her spinal cord that allowed the virus to enter her bloodstream. The infection spread to her brain. After six weeks of intense antibiotics and surgeries the Meningitis cleared up and she was able to go home.
She has permanent brain damage affecting her short-term and long-term memory. She suddenly can't remember what she was doing (which can be dangerous if she's cooking or even showering). She can't remember what she was saying. She can't remember her childhood. The doctor says her short-term memory will probably right itself. But her long-term memory may be gone forever.
It has also been recommended that she have plastic surgery to repair the hole in her back causing bacteria access to her spinal cord. If she does so, she will have to enter a nursing home for six weeks, and she will not be allowed to sit up for the first four weeks. If she does so, it will at least cut the chances that something as life-threatening could happen again as easily. If she does not do this, infections will continue to weaken her immune system. She is, of course, refusing to have this surgery.
So, time is slipping away. Memories are slipping away. Maybe a little bit of happiness is what she needs, and maybe a grandchild will bring her some happiness. I'm choosing to believe this. Her other daughter (18 this week) will most likely never have children, so this may be my sister's one shot at ever seeing her grandchildren. Maybe, knowing that a baby is on the way, one she'll want to watch grow up, maybe she'll change her mind about having the surgery. I'm choosing to hope for this.
May 23, 2013
"Fitch, Please"
Ellen said that on her show when she was taking Abercrombie and Fitch to task for the comments made by CEO Mike Jeffries. If you don't know, he said there are certain people who shouldn't wear A&F clothing and made distinctions between "cool" and "uncool" kids, implying anyone above a certain size isn't "cool."
So, obviously, this guy's kind of a dick. Skinny does not equal cool. A LOT of athletes are not "cool" for the pure reason that they, often, are also complete dicks. Not all of them, I don't want to be making any grand generalizations here. But most people have a particular image of what the "cool" kids were like in their high school days and for most people, cheerleaders, athletes, etc. were not friendly or, indeed, "cool."
But I digress, because actually, I wanted to give props to an argument I read in the comments section of one particular online article. Someone made the "joke" that they were going to boycott Lane Bryant because they didn't carry extra-small clothing. Then they pointed out that if A&F didn't want to market toward a certain demographic they didn't have to because, hello, capitalism. And using this logic, we can make the argument that Lane Bryant is also "exclusionary" and, therefore, "discriminatory." And while I don't know if I agree completely, that's a totally logical, intelligent argument.
Do I shop at A&F? No, it's way too expensive and the employees have always been complete dicks to me when I walk in. Because they assume I'm not their demographic. (Which, while I am a bit older than their target consumer, I am also almost universally an XS - S in clothing.) But do I agree that they should expand their clothing sizes so "everyone" can fit their clothing? NOPE. Here's why: that's impossible.
I work in a clothing store, as you know. Our "core" sizes start at a junior XS (size 0) and run to a junior XXL (roughly size 17/18). Then we have our "plus" sizes which start at 14 and run to 24. For the most part, we do not have the same clothing on both sides. It is getting better, because one of our biggest customer complaints is finding something on "the other side."
But it isn't as simple as just making a shirt bigger and bigger. A lot of fashion designers say that for "plus" sized women clothing has to be re-imagined, re-shaped, etc. because their shapes are just plain different than the average shape of a woman who wears a small. Sometimes, when our store does have the same shirt on both sides, it might be more fitted in the "core" sizes but have a band at the bottom in the "plus" sizes. This is because for many "plus" women, bands at the bottom prevent the shirt from just hanging and looking sloppy, or exposing their stomachs.
But I also can't tell you how many times we have a woman who is a size, say, 28 come in and complain to us about our store not catering to her size. I don't know what to tell these women because most stores can't carry every size conceivable. So that's why I'm not totally on the bandwagon about A&F needing to expand its sizes. Could their CEO have made more intelligent comments? Absolutely. He could have just talked about the image for their company being young athletes or something. Which is fine. Tommy Hilfiger had a particular image for his company: yuppies. He was actually aghast when rappers started wearing his clothing and said that if he'd known that was the image his company would be associated with, he wouldn't have ever gone into business. Yeah, a lot of rich people say stupid things, huh?
And to the people who say that if you want to fit into A&F clothing you should go on a diet: you CAN'T be serious. It IS NOT that simple for most overweight people. A lot of people are overweight because they eat unhealthy food, and a lot of it, sure. But a lot of people are also overweight because they have some kind of injury that prevents them from getting proper exercise, or they have a health condition, or their medication makes them gain weight, ETC.
By the way, right now we have a woman working in our store who is too small for most of our clothing. She takes a lot of abuse at the hands of customers (and, sometimes, employees who need to get over their own self-image problems because they're a medium and she makes them feel "fat"). She holds her own pretty well, pointing out that she has an equally hard time when she's forced to buy kids clothes and then she's at the mall and realizes the 10-year-old girl next to her is wearing the same shirt. But the point is most clothes aren't tailored to her body-type either, and she'd gladly trade with the medium-sized employee. But it also isn't as simple as eating more food. Just as it isn't a simple as eating less food.
So, as mean as this sounds, to the people boycotting A&F because they need to expand their clothing sizes: get over it. Shop somewhere else. If you're boycotting them because their CEO is a bully, more power to you, continue with your peaceful protests. Teach your children that the image A&F sends is one that condones bullying and discrimination. Or, grow a spine and tell your children NO when they want to shop there. (Too many times I hear parents say, "she won't wear anything that isn't A&F. It's so expensive but I don't know what to do." And I want to scream, "Tell her NO.") But they don't have to carry clothing to suit everyone's needs. They do need to reevaluate their values, though.
P.S. Yesterday I had a customer who saw a shirt in the "plus" section and asked if it was in "regular girl" sizes. I corrected her, right there, and said, "You mean in the junior sizes?" She kind of stared at me for a second but then she apologized. First of all, she was a small on top and a size 3/4 for bottoms. That is, in no way on Earth, "regular." The average size is between 11-14. I know not only because I read that in an article recently but also because those are the sizes we sell out of first. We also have to correct customers who say, "normal girls sizes," "real girl sizes," and others. I don't expect them to know that our store is divided into "juniors" and "womens" sizes, but I do expect them to say something more like, "do you have this in a medium" or "do you have this in my size?"
So, obviously, this guy's kind of a dick. Skinny does not equal cool. A LOT of athletes are not "cool" for the pure reason that they, often, are also complete dicks. Not all of them, I don't want to be making any grand generalizations here. But most people have a particular image of what the "cool" kids were like in their high school days and for most people, cheerleaders, athletes, etc. were not friendly or, indeed, "cool."
But I digress, because actually, I wanted to give props to an argument I read in the comments section of one particular online article. Someone made the "joke" that they were going to boycott Lane Bryant because they didn't carry extra-small clothing. Then they pointed out that if A&F didn't want to market toward a certain demographic they didn't have to because, hello, capitalism. And using this logic, we can make the argument that Lane Bryant is also "exclusionary" and, therefore, "discriminatory." And while I don't know if I agree completely, that's a totally logical, intelligent argument.
Do I shop at A&F? No, it's way too expensive and the employees have always been complete dicks to me when I walk in. Because they assume I'm not their demographic. (Which, while I am a bit older than their target consumer, I am also almost universally an XS - S in clothing.) But do I agree that they should expand their clothing sizes so "everyone" can fit their clothing? NOPE. Here's why: that's impossible.
I work in a clothing store, as you know. Our "core" sizes start at a junior XS (size 0) and run to a junior XXL (roughly size 17/18). Then we have our "plus" sizes which start at 14 and run to 24. For the most part, we do not have the same clothing on both sides. It is getting better, because one of our biggest customer complaints is finding something on "the other side."
But it isn't as simple as just making a shirt bigger and bigger. A lot of fashion designers say that for "plus" sized women clothing has to be re-imagined, re-shaped, etc. because their shapes are just plain different than the average shape of a woman who wears a small. Sometimes, when our store does have the same shirt on both sides, it might be more fitted in the "core" sizes but have a band at the bottom in the "plus" sizes. This is because for many "plus" women, bands at the bottom prevent the shirt from just hanging and looking sloppy, or exposing their stomachs.
But I also can't tell you how many times we have a woman who is a size, say, 28 come in and complain to us about our store not catering to her size. I don't know what to tell these women because most stores can't carry every size conceivable. So that's why I'm not totally on the bandwagon about A&F needing to expand its sizes. Could their CEO have made more intelligent comments? Absolutely. He could have just talked about the image for their company being young athletes or something. Which is fine. Tommy Hilfiger had a particular image for his company: yuppies. He was actually aghast when rappers started wearing his clothing and said that if he'd known that was the image his company would be associated with, he wouldn't have ever gone into business. Yeah, a lot of rich people say stupid things, huh?
And to the people who say that if you want to fit into A&F clothing you should go on a diet: you CAN'T be serious. It IS NOT that simple for most overweight people. A lot of people are overweight because they eat unhealthy food, and a lot of it, sure. But a lot of people are also overweight because they have some kind of injury that prevents them from getting proper exercise, or they have a health condition, or their medication makes them gain weight, ETC.
By the way, right now we have a woman working in our store who is too small for most of our clothing. She takes a lot of abuse at the hands of customers (and, sometimes, employees who need to get over their own self-image problems because they're a medium and she makes them feel "fat"). She holds her own pretty well, pointing out that she has an equally hard time when she's forced to buy kids clothes and then she's at the mall and realizes the 10-year-old girl next to her is wearing the same shirt. But the point is most clothes aren't tailored to her body-type either, and she'd gladly trade with the medium-sized employee. But it also isn't as simple as eating more food. Just as it isn't a simple as eating less food.
So, as mean as this sounds, to the people boycotting A&F because they need to expand their clothing sizes: get over it. Shop somewhere else. If you're boycotting them because their CEO is a bully, more power to you, continue with your peaceful protests. Teach your children that the image A&F sends is one that condones bullying and discrimination. Or, grow a spine and tell your children NO when they want to shop there. (Too many times I hear parents say, "she won't wear anything that isn't A&F. It's so expensive but I don't know what to do." And I want to scream, "Tell her NO.") But they don't have to carry clothing to suit everyone's needs. They do need to reevaluate their values, though.
P.S. Yesterday I had a customer who saw a shirt in the "plus" section and asked if it was in "regular girl" sizes. I corrected her, right there, and said, "You mean in the junior sizes?" She kind of stared at me for a second but then she apologized. First of all, she was a small on top and a size 3/4 for bottoms. That is, in no way on Earth, "regular." The average size is between 11-14. I know not only because I read that in an article recently but also because those are the sizes we sell out of first. We also have to correct customers who say, "normal girls sizes," "real girl sizes," and others. I don't expect them to know that our store is divided into "juniors" and "womens" sizes, but I do expect them to say something more like, "do you have this in a medium" or "do you have this in my size?"
April 13, 2013
A Poor Situation
My sister is in the hospital with Spinal Meningitis. She is extremely weak, heavily medicated, and in a lot of pain. Wednesday she underwent surgery to reroute her intestines so her fecal matter would deposit into pouches instead of going through her colon and into her anal cavity. The reason she needed this surgery was because some time ago she broke her tailbone and bacteria from her bowels was seeping into the wound and infecting it. Eventually, the caused an infection so severe it made a sore that went all the way to her spine and that's how she contracted Spinal Meningitis.
Last Sunday and Monday, it looked very bad. My mother even thought that she could die. It was touch and go. The infection had already spread to her brain. Our local hospital wasn't sure they could treat the Meningitis. She was transported to a bigger hospital in another city. This was a touch move since bouncing around in the ambulance caused her agonizing pain. At the new hospital they plied her with antibiotics and did a thousand tests.
Then they formulated a plan to treat the Meningitis, then do this surgery she had, then continue treating the Meningitis, then figure out where to go from there to start curing the wound surrounding her tailbone.
Right now, my mother goes down almost daily to see her. The thing is, we don't really have the money to drive to the city every day. It's about a forty minute drive and we can't afford it daily. We also have to take care of her daughters, we have to go to work, etc. So sometimes, we can't go every day. I know it seems harsh, but she sleeps for most of the time we're there and is disoriented due to pain, pain medication, and the infection in her brain.
The problem with this is when I tell people that I'm going to see her, say, Monday, they ask me, "Well, aren't you going today?" When I answer with "no" they stare at me as though I'm an awful human being. The worst culprit for this is Janet, aforementioned in a previous post. I say something like, "We don't have the money to go there every day. If we went there every day we'd already have spent hundreds in gas and we just can't afford that right now." Then she just glares at me. I mean, usually someone goes every day. Either my nieces (her daughters), my mother, my sister, me, my father, my brother. But we can't all go every day.
I also try to explain that when she's having surgery, the last thing the doctors and nurses need is fifteen people in their way. I also don't really want to go with my older sister because she's an angry person and all she does is yell at the doctors and nurses for not preventing this from happening. (For the record, my sister, the one who's sick, was told about a year ago that something like this would happen if she didn't get the intestine surgery.) Well, anyway, when I say we don't ALL need to be there EVERY DAY Janet launches into a story about how when her mother was dying, she forced the nurses to let her stay with her mother past visiting hours, for as long as she wanted, and forced them to let every person in regardless of time, relationship, or how many people were already there. When I reply that I think it's better for my sister to get some rest, and, besides, we can't afford to take three cars to another city every day, Janet just rolls her eyes and says, "Whatever, honey. So you're not going today? Whatever."
You know what, FUCK YOU JANET. First of all, I've tried to tell everyone at work: we are not trying to treat this like she's dying. A) We've been through several situations like this throughout the years since my sister was paralyzed in an accident twenty-six years ago. B) We can't believe she won't get better because if we break, particularly in front of her daughters, it will just be too much. C) We don't have any evidence it won't get better. We don't have any that it won't get worse, but we're hanging on to the threads we can reach right now. D) This isn't about you, JANET. What I need right now is if I say, "I can go see her on Monday," people try to help me arrange my schedule so I can go see her on Monday.
The other worry is when I say, "We can't afford to go to the city every day," Janet might think I'm trying to manipulate her into giving me money. This has happened before. She told our manager once that because I was trying to decide on whether I had the money to buy this vest I wanted, Janet just KNEW I was actually hinting I wanted her to buy it for me. I'm sorry, but, WHAT? Then my boss wrote ME up. Because actually thinking about your budget out loud is automatically a manipulation technique. I'm sorry that Janet has infinite money and, like, ten credit cards, but I don't. I was just thinking out loud. But after that, I wasn't allowed to even try on a piece of clothing unless I knew I could buy it, because if I had to put it back and Janet found out I put it back because I couldn't afford it, I'd get written up again for manipulation. YEAH.
But what I NEED is for the people who are around me to say, "Whatever you need, let us know." And then I will. And then they will accommodate that. I can't just take every day off from work. I can't afford to work half-shifts for the next few weeks. I can't fill up the gas tank every single day. I can't succumb to the stress of both worrying about my sister and worrying about how people are judging my choices in this situation. I'm trying to handle it all and if I don't have support, the kind of support I NEED, then I'm going lose my handle on it all.
Last Sunday and Monday, it looked very bad. My mother even thought that she could die. It was touch and go. The infection had already spread to her brain. Our local hospital wasn't sure they could treat the Meningitis. She was transported to a bigger hospital in another city. This was a touch move since bouncing around in the ambulance caused her agonizing pain. At the new hospital they plied her with antibiotics and did a thousand tests.
Then they formulated a plan to treat the Meningitis, then do this surgery she had, then continue treating the Meningitis, then figure out where to go from there to start curing the wound surrounding her tailbone.
Right now, my mother goes down almost daily to see her. The thing is, we don't really have the money to drive to the city every day. It's about a forty minute drive and we can't afford it daily. We also have to take care of her daughters, we have to go to work, etc. So sometimes, we can't go every day. I know it seems harsh, but she sleeps for most of the time we're there and is disoriented due to pain, pain medication, and the infection in her brain.
The problem with this is when I tell people that I'm going to see her, say, Monday, they ask me, "Well, aren't you going today?" When I answer with "no" they stare at me as though I'm an awful human being. The worst culprit for this is Janet, aforementioned in a previous post. I say something like, "We don't have the money to go there every day. If we went there every day we'd already have spent hundreds in gas and we just can't afford that right now." Then she just glares at me. I mean, usually someone goes every day. Either my nieces (her daughters), my mother, my sister, me, my father, my brother. But we can't all go every day.
I also try to explain that when she's having surgery, the last thing the doctors and nurses need is fifteen people in their way. I also don't really want to go with my older sister because she's an angry person and all she does is yell at the doctors and nurses for not preventing this from happening. (For the record, my sister, the one who's sick, was told about a year ago that something like this would happen if she didn't get the intestine surgery.) Well, anyway, when I say we don't ALL need to be there EVERY DAY Janet launches into a story about how when her mother was dying, she forced the nurses to let her stay with her mother past visiting hours, for as long as she wanted, and forced them to let every person in regardless of time, relationship, or how many people were already there. When I reply that I think it's better for my sister to get some rest, and, besides, we can't afford to take three cars to another city every day, Janet just rolls her eyes and says, "Whatever, honey. So you're not going today? Whatever."
You know what, FUCK YOU JANET. First of all, I've tried to tell everyone at work: we are not trying to treat this like she's dying. A) We've been through several situations like this throughout the years since my sister was paralyzed in an accident twenty-six years ago. B) We can't believe she won't get better because if we break, particularly in front of her daughters, it will just be too much. C) We don't have any evidence it won't get better. We don't have any that it won't get worse, but we're hanging on to the threads we can reach right now. D) This isn't about you, JANET. What I need right now is if I say, "I can go see her on Monday," people try to help me arrange my schedule so I can go see her on Monday.
The other worry is when I say, "We can't afford to go to the city every day," Janet might think I'm trying to manipulate her into giving me money. This has happened before. She told our manager once that because I was trying to decide on whether I had the money to buy this vest I wanted, Janet just KNEW I was actually hinting I wanted her to buy it for me. I'm sorry, but, WHAT? Then my boss wrote ME up. Because actually thinking about your budget out loud is automatically a manipulation technique. I'm sorry that Janet has infinite money and, like, ten credit cards, but I don't. I was just thinking out loud. But after that, I wasn't allowed to even try on a piece of clothing unless I knew I could buy it, because if I had to put it back and Janet found out I put it back because I couldn't afford it, I'd get written up again for manipulation. YEAH.
But what I NEED is for the people who are around me to say, "Whatever you need, let us know." And then I will. And then they will accommodate that. I can't just take every day off from work. I can't afford to work half-shifts for the next few weeks. I can't fill up the gas tank every single day. I can't succumb to the stress of both worrying about my sister and worrying about how people are judging my choices in this situation. I'm trying to handle it all and if I don't have support, the kind of support I NEED, then I'm going lose my handle on it all.
March 25, 2013
To Vent Again
Why....would anyone asking for money scream and cuss at the person they're asking help from?
Sometimes people are so frustrating and dealing with them makes me want to crawl into bed and never come back out again. Tonight, I had three people ask for money in the course of an hour. One of them asked for five dollars, one asked for ten dollars, and one asked for fifty dollars.
The five dollars, fine. My mother needed me to pick up her medicine and it was going to cost five dollars. No big deal and she needs her medicine and since there isn't anyone else willing to help her, fine.
The ten dollars was actually the one I was most upset by. At first. It will be the one I'm most bothered by in the long run. My father needed to put gas in his car. He needed to do so because he takes EVERYONE ON THE PLANET where they need to go, daily. He takes people an estimated thirty places every day. Well, except he doesn't take me anywhere. I have a car. I put gas in my own car. No one else puts gas in my car. But I have to put gas in the car that takes them everywhere? I told my father I didn't really have ten dollars but if he really needed it I would give it to him. But I told him I had just enough money and that I supposed it would be fine.
Then THIS happened: My sister called to ask for fifty dollars. Now look, she's disabled with two amputated legs and sometimes she needs help but mostly she takes care of herself. By herself. On her own. So when she needs help, that's fine with me.
The problem: she did not call me directly. Instead, she called my mother. My father overheard the one-sided conversation and asked my mother whether my sister was calling to ask for money. When my mother wouldn't answer him, he asked more forcefully and more angrily. So my sister heard him say, "Is she calling to ask for money?" in an angry tone and assumed he was mad because she was asking for money. So my sister, and my niece who was eavesdropping on my sister's side of the phone, started crying, screaming, and cussing. This is all before I ever get on the phone. They also hang up on my mother.
So she calls them back. I get on the phone. They are screaming at me, cussing about how they aren't ever going to fucking ask for any fucking help from any fucking person again and we can all just die and such. I say they need to calm down. That doesn't turn out so well. I tell them I will call them back after I talk to my mother for a minute.
THAT doesn't go well, either. Because when I explain that I think they need to apologize to me because they had no right to scream and cuss at me, my mother goes off on ME. She says that when you're broke and frustrated sometimes you can't help but get angry. I say, I still had nothing to do with that. Then my mother starts yelling at me about how I need to stop trying to explain the world to her and how I need to stop talking to her like she's a child. I say, "All I want from you is for you to admit I had every right to be angry they were cussing at me." She REFUSED. She yelled about how my father shouldn't have said what he said. I remind her that STILL has nothing to do with me. They called to ask me for money, cussed at me, and are still going to get their way and won't have to apologize?
I tell my mother how I feel like my feelings don't matter. They should apologize to me. She screams her tired old, "Tomorrow I'm going to leave all of you behind and get out of this bullshit." Now SHE'S the victim. Because of how I'M treating HER.
I went and got the money. I got my mother's medicine and got sixty dollars cash so my father could put ten dollars in the gas tank and take the other fifty to my sister. I came home and, again, asked my mother to admit that I had the right to be angry. She wouldn't even look at me. In a voice like a child who has to recite some rule her parents have told her, my mother gritted her teeth and "admitted" it. I talked to her for a few more minutes and she never once looked at me. It was so frustrating.
Meanwhile, here's the conversation I had with my father in the car on the way back from getting my mother's medicine: My father told me he had asked whether my sister was calling for money because since I had told him I didn't have any money earlier he was going to save everyone the hassle and let my sister know I didn't have any money. This enraged me for several reasons -
a) I did have the money. I just didn't want to give it to my father for gas. Because it isn't fair that I should have to pay for gas for a car I never use. But now I was forced to admit I told him I didn't have money when I did because I didn't want to give it to him for that reason.
b) He should have known how it was going to sound if someone overheard him. But he doesn't care. He's never wrong, he always has to insert himself in the middle of things, and in case I didn't mention it, he's never wrong.
c) He didn't have the right to tell anyone whether I had money or not. He doesn't have the right to make decisions for me. I know he thought he was protecting me but I should get to tell people what I have or don't have, what I can or can't do, what I will or won't do. That's MY decision.
d) Now EVERYONE knows that I have money. Because when it's a big blowup EVERYONE hears about it. So the money I tried to save for an emergency is just going to get blown away because now they are all going to crawl out of the woodwork. And I won't be able to say no because they'll call me selfish and a liar. And while there's a part of me that knows I shouldn't care, I do, and it's hard.
Sometimes people are so frustrating and dealing with them makes me want to crawl into bed and never come back out again. Tonight, I had three people ask for money in the course of an hour. One of them asked for five dollars, one asked for ten dollars, and one asked for fifty dollars.
The five dollars, fine. My mother needed me to pick up her medicine and it was going to cost five dollars. No big deal and she needs her medicine and since there isn't anyone else willing to help her, fine.
The ten dollars was actually the one I was most upset by. At first. It will be the one I'm most bothered by in the long run. My father needed to put gas in his car. He needed to do so because he takes EVERYONE ON THE PLANET where they need to go, daily. He takes people an estimated thirty places every day. Well, except he doesn't take me anywhere. I have a car. I put gas in my own car. No one else puts gas in my car. But I have to put gas in the car that takes them everywhere? I told my father I didn't really have ten dollars but if he really needed it I would give it to him. But I told him I had just enough money and that I supposed it would be fine.
Then THIS happened: My sister called to ask for fifty dollars. Now look, she's disabled with two amputated legs and sometimes she needs help but mostly she takes care of herself. By herself. On her own. So when she needs help, that's fine with me.
The problem: she did not call me directly. Instead, she called my mother. My father overheard the one-sided conversation and asked my mother whether my sister was calling to ask for money. When my mother wouldn't answer him, he asked more forcefully and more angrily. So my sister heard him say, "Is she calling to ask for money?" in an angry tone and assumed he was mad because she was asking for money. So my sister, and my niece who was eavesdropping on my sister's side of the phone, started crying, screaming, and cussing. This is all before I ever get on the phone. They also hang up on my mother.
So she calls them back. I get on the phone. They are screaming at me, cussing about how they aren't ever going to fucking ask for any fucking help from any fucking person again and we can all just die and such. I say they need to calm down. That doesn't turn out so well. I tell them I will call them back after I talk to my mother for a minute.
THAT doesn't go well, either. Because when I explain that I think they need to apologize to me because they had no right to scream and cuss at me, my mother goes off on ME. She says that when you're broke and frustrated sometimes you can't help but get angry. I say, I still had nothing to do with that. Then my mother starts yelling at me about how I need to stop trying to explain the world to her and how I need to stop talking to her like she's a child. I say, "All I want from you is for you to admit I had every right to be angry they were cussing at me." She REFUSED. She yelled about how my father shouldn't have said what he said. I remind her that STILL has nothing to do with me. They called to ask me for money, cussed at me, and are still going to get their way and won't have to apologize?
I tell my mother how I feel like my feelings don't matter. They should apologize to me. She screams her tired old, "Tomorrow I'm going to leave all of you behind and get out of this bullshit." Now SHE'S the victim. Because of how I'M treating HER.
I went and got the money. I got my mother's medicine and got sixty dollars cash so my father could put ten dollars in the gas tank and take the other fifty to my sister. I came home and, again, asked my mother to admit that I had the right to be angry. She wouldn't even look at me. In a voice like a child who has to recite some rule her parents have told her, my mother gritted her teeth and "admitted" it. I talked to her for a few more minutes and she never once looked at me. It was so frustrating.
Meanwhile, here's the conversation I had with my father in the car on the way back from getting my mother's medicine: My father told me he had asked whether my sister was calling for money because since I had told him I didn't have any money earlier he was going to save everyone the hassle and let my sister know I didn't have any money. This enraged me for several reasons -
a) I did have the money. I just didn't want to give it to my father for gas. Because it isn't fair that I should have to pay for gas for a car I never use. But now I was forced to admit I told him I didn't have money when I did because I didn't want to give it to him for that reason.
b) He should have known how it was going to sound if someone overheard him. But he doesn't care. He's never wrong, he always has to insert himself in the middle of things, and in case I didn't mention it, he's never wrong.
c) He didn't have the right to tell anyone whether I had money or not. He doesn't have the right to make decisions for me. I know he thought he was protecting me but I should get to tell people what I have or don't have, what I can or can't do, what I will or won't do. That's MY decision.
d) Now EVERYONE knows that I have money. Because when it's a big blowup EVERYONE hears about it. So the money I tried to save for an emergency is just going to get blown away because now they are all going to crawl out of the woodwork. And I won't be able to say no because they'll call me selfish and a liar. And while there's a part of me that knows I shouldn't care, I do, and it's hard.
January 27, 2013
Service
Tonight I went out to dinner with most of my coworkers. Our boss takes us out to eat every year for Christmas, which we usually do in January because it's less stressful for most of us to schedule a day and gives us extra time to buy a Secret Santa gift. You know, we work in the customer service field and you would think that would make us more patient when we have service that is good but not perfect. Let me lay out the situation for you.
We went to the Olive Garden. It's a Sunday. We were a group of seven, possibly eight. We didn't have a reservation, but my boss - at the last minute - phoned ahead about a half an hour and asked if they had a wait. Of friggin' course they did, it's a Sunday in an area with several malls. The wait was an hour and twenty minutes. But, they said, if we gave them a name they would make us the first priority when we got there and as soon as a table big enough for us opened up we'd be the first people they seated.
We arrived at the restaraunt. Some of my coworkers complained about having to wait. We waited about ten minutes. On a busy Sunday evening. They let us know multiple times how long we'd be waiting, telling us the table they were going to use for us had been given their bill, then telling us the table was being cleaned off, then seating us. From the time we got there to the time we were seated was no more than about ten minutes. Meanwhile, people who arrived BEFORE us had to wait longer.
We sat. Our waiter told us about the day's wine we could sample. One of my coworkers, let's call her Janet, made a snarky comment about how she doesn't drink red wine, it's disgusting, she needs something sweeter, she only drinks Zinfadel, etc. She couldn't just say, no, thank you. The waiter tried to chat with us as he took our drink order. He asked us if we were celebrating anything. No one answered. I answered and then there were also some mumbled, "Yeah, Christmas." Then he asked how we all knew each other. Again, no one answered. Finally, our boss said we all worked retail. He took our drink orders and said he'd get those and give us time to look over the menu. Our boss said she thought we could order now, and he said, oh, okay, but Janet and another girl weren't ready so they got rude with the WAITER about needing more time.
So, let me just say, Olive Garden was packed. It was loud, there was a HUGE birthday party going on (there must have been thirty or forty people celebrating). Waiters were getting into traffic jams trying to take care of multiple tables at once. It took maybe five minutes for us to get our drinks. My boss and I ordered special drinks (everyone else just had tea or lemonade) so ours were on a list to be made at the bar - even though they were non-alcoholic they were the kind of drinks that have to be MADE and MIXED: some kind of special juice and a smoothie. Janet complained about the fact that my boss and I didn't have our drinks yet. I said, well, they're special, and the waiter did try to reassure us that they were being made as quickly as possible. While we were waiting, the waiter brought us our salad and breadsticks.
And here is where the really frustrating part begins. Two of our coworkers had asked for salad with salad dressing on the side, so the waiter told us he would bring us one salad with dressing and one with it on the side. My coworkers all agreed to this. We said, oh, great, that would be great. So he brings it, just as promised. Quickly, it is obvious it will not be quite enough for seven people, so we politely ask for an extra salad, right? No, the snarky fucking comment to the poor waiter, from Janet, is "Did you really think two salads was going to be enough?" The waiter says he'll bring another salad. He asks if we want it to have dressing on the side. We don't. When he leaves, Janet continues to complain about the amount of salad. I say, "He's getting us another one. He's fixing the problem." She says, yeah, but still, you know? And I'm like, no.
During this time, also, another waiter brought our special drinks. Janet says, "I was starting to think we'd be done with our salads before you guys got those drinks." I say, again, well, they had to be specially made. At this point, everyone can tell that I'm getting angry. It's uncomfortable. But I'm not going to just let her make those comments. The waiter is doing the best he can. Another coworker who used to work in a restaurant tries to diffuse the situation (though moments before she was snarking on the poor waiter, too) by saying that it's hard on the waiters because they can only go as fast as the kitchen/bar can go.
We get our extra salad. Our boss tries to make a joke that I get first dibbs because I let everyone else take the first salads. The truth is I didn't want any salad, really, but I took a little just to make everyone happy. I ate, maybe, two bites. As we're spooning out our new salad, our dinners come. Janet, FUCKING JANET, has to make a comment that we aren't even done eating salad. I don't know what this woman wants. I say that we can eat salads along side our meals. She says most people want to eat their salads first and then eat their meals. I say, not the people I know. She just glares at me.
We eat in mostly silence. Oh, but let me add this: during the entire meal - the ENTIRE meal - every one of my coworkers is playing on her cell phone. Except me, as I have an ancient flip phone with no texting or internet nor do I have the desire for a phone with either of those capabilities. They are texting; sometimes they are texting EACH OTHER. They decide to "friend" each other on Facebook and so there is a mini-marathon of passing phones around so each woman can type her name into everyone else's phone. Meanwhile, the waiter is trying to ask questions (like taking our orders) but is getting no answers or just annoyed looks because, you know, we're busy. I was so FUCKING embarrassed.
Let me back up. As soon as we sat down Janet wanted to know where the dessert menu was. At this time, chaos is going on because we're all getting situated, asking each other how we're doing, looking at our menus, the waiter is trying to get our drink orders, etc. Janet just keeps complaining about that dessert menu.
But now, back to the future, we've eaten and it's traditionally time for dessert. The waiter tells us about the desserts (I admit to being annoyed by no menu). He tells us the first dessert and Janet interrupts him to say, "Chocolate. We want chocolate." I tell him that I, in fact, don't want chocolate but want Tiramisu. Everyone asks what that is and so he continues on with the desserts and eventually says there is chocolate cake. CHAOS ENSUES as everyone asks him how big the cake is, how many calories, etc. What the fuck, it's a dessert! You know it has a lot of calories, deal! As he's walking away our teenager says, "Excuse me, but I want some water." He asks if she wants lemon in it and she GLARES at him and just says, "Whatever, no, um, just no." I say, he just asked if we wanted refills and you didn't speak up then. She just stares at me. He puts in our orders and brings the check.
And here, ladies and gentlemen, is where I begin to throw a fit. Because an audible bitchfest begins about how bad the service was. The drinks were too slow. There wasn't enough salad. Our food came too quickly. Janet didn't like him (he was, by the way, clearly gay and it is known she's uncomfortable with gay men - you know what, men in general). The girl who used to work in a restaurant begins detailing all the ways she would have been in trouble if she had served like he had served.
I am PISSED. I start reminding them that the restaurant is busy, they got a party of seven seated within ten minutes, they filled all of our requests, and the waiter tried to be friendly. The whole time my boss is watching my face and she can see that I'm upset and so she tries to ask if 25% is too much. Now look: YES. I feel 15% - 20% is fine for good service and I think he did the best he could with the situation he had. My coworkers, especially Janet, get loud about how they would only give 15% for really good service, and according to them, he was not good service. I reiterate that he did a fine job given the situation and that 15% would be fine.
Again, meanwhile, and I know this is long but I need to vent, the waiter is boxing up our food, writing what it was and the date on it, boxing up the extra salad, giving us bags for the breadsticks. He even wrote us a little note on the comment card that recalled every detail we had told him the few times we did actually chat with him. So, anyway, our boss gives him 20% and we leave. On our way out he taps me on the shoulder and says that Janet forgot her box, so could I make sure she gets it? I say sure and thank him for everything. When I catch up to Janet and tell her she forgot her box, she says, "I didn't want that. He didn't even ask me if I wanted that. What the hell?" So I just snatch it out of her hands and walk to the car.
Our boss paid for everything. She picked up the whole bill. I tried to call her to talk to her, but she didn't answer. I know she knows I'm upset. I know she's avoiding me. So I will have to talk to her tomorrow. I'm going to ask her if she wants me to pay her back for my meal because it will make it easier for me to tell her I'm never going out with them again. This happens every fucking time. We've gone out for a few occasions this year and this happens EVERY FUCKING TIME. And I'm finally done with it. I'm done being completely embarrassed. It isn't a mandatory dinner so maybe they'll have more fun next year when they can complain about nonsense without being interrupted. I know I'll have more fun reading a book or watching TV.
We went to the Olive Garden. It's a Sunday. We were a group of seven, possibly eight. We didn't have a reservation, but my boss - at the last minute - phoned ahead about a half an hour and asked if they had a wait. Of friggin' course they did, it's a Sunday in an area with several malls. The wait was an hour and twenty minutes. But, they said, if we gave them a name they would make us the first priority when we got there and as soon as a table big enough for us opened up we'd be the first people they seated.
We arrived at the restaraunt. Some of my coworkers complained about having to wait. We waited about ten minutes. On a busy Sunday evening. They let us know multiple times how long we'd be waiting, telling us the table they were going to use for us had been given their bill, then telling us the table was being cleaned off, then seating us. From the time we got there to the time we were seated was no more than about ten minutes. Meanwhile, people who arrived BEFORE us had to wait longer.
We sat. Our waiter told us about the day's wine we could sample. One of my coworkers, let's call her Janet, made a snarky comment about how she doesn't drink red wine, it's disgusting, she needs something sweeter, she only drinks Zinfadel, etc. She couldn't just say, no, thank you. The waiter tried to chat with us as he took our drink order. He asked us if we were celebrating anything. No one answered. I answered and then there were also some mumbled, "Yeah, Christmas." Then he asked how we all knew each other. Again, no one answered. Finally, our boss said we all worked retail. He took our drink orders and said he'd get those and give us time to look over the menu. Our boss said she thought we could order now, and he said, oh, okay, but Janet and another girl weren't ready so they got rude with the WAITER about needing more time.
So, let me just say, Olive Garden was packed. It was loud, there was a HUGE birthday party going on (there must have been thirty or forty people celebrating). Waiters were getting into traffic jams trying to take care of multiple tables at once. It took maybe five minutes for us to get our drinks. My boss and I ordered special drinks (everyone else just had tea or lemonade) so ours were on a list to be made at the bar - even though they were non-alcoholic they were the kind of drinks that have to be MADE and MIXED: some kind of special juice and a smoothie. Janet complained about the fact that my boss and I didn't have our drinks yet. I said, well, they're special, and the waiter did try to reassure us that they were being made as quickly as possible. While we were waiting, the waiter brought us our salad and breadsticks.
And here is where the really frustrating part begins. Two of our coworkers had asked for salad with salad dressing on the side, so the waiter told us he would bring us one salad with dressing and one with it on the side. My coworkers all agreed to this. We said, oh, great, that would be great. So he brings it, just as promised. Quickly, it is obvious it will not be quite enough for seven people, so we politely ask for an extra salad, right? No, the snarky fucking comment to the poor waiter, from Janet, is "Did you really think two salads was going to be enough?" The waiter says he'll bring another salad. He asks if we want it to have dressing on the side. We don't. When he leaves, Janet continues to complain about the amount of salad. I say, "He's getting us another one. He's fixing the problem." She says, yeah, but still, you know? And I'm like, no.
During this time, also, another waiter brought our special drinks. Janet says, "I was starting to think we'd be done with our salads before you guys got those drinks." I say, again, well, they had to be specially made. At this point, everyone can tell that I'm getting angry. It's uncomfortable. But I'm not going to just let her make those comments. The waiter is doing the best he can. Another coworker who used to work in a restaurant tries to diffuse the situation (though moments before she was snarking on the poor waiter, too) by saying that it's hard on the waiters because they can only go as fast as the kitchen/bar can go.
We get our extra salad. Our boss tries to make a joke that I get first dibbs because I let everyone else take the first salads. The truth is I didn't want any salad, really, but I took a little just to make everyone happy. I ate, maybe, two bites. As we're spooning out our new salad, our dinners come. Janet, FUCKING JANET, has to make a comment that we aren't even done eating salad. I don't know what this woman wants. I say that we can eat salads along side our meals. She says most people want to eat their salads first and then eat their meals. I say, not the people I know. She just glares at me.
We eat in mostly silence. Oh, but let me add this: during the entire meal - the ENTIRE meal - every one of my coworkers is playing on her cell phone. Except me, as I have an ancient flip phone with no texting or internet nor do I have the desire for a phone with either of those capabilities. They are texting; sometimes they are texting EACH OTHER. They decide to "friend" each other on Facebook and so there is a mini-marathon of passing phones around so each woman can type her name into everyone else's phone. Meanwhile, the waiter is trying to ask questions (like taking our orders) but is getting no answers or just annoyed looks because, you know, we're busy. I was so FUCKING embarrassed.
Let me back up. As soon as we sat down Janet wanted to know where the dessert menu was. At this time, chaos is going on because we're all getting situated, asking each other how we're doing, looking at our menus, the waiter is trying to get our drink orders, etc. Janet just keeps complaining about that dessert menu.
But now, back to the future, we've eaten and it's traditionally time for dessert. The waiter tells us about the desserts (I admit to being annoyed by no menu). He tells us the first dessert and Janet interrupts him to say, "Chocolate. We want chocolate." I tell him that I, in fact, don't want chocolate but want Tiramisu. Everyone asks what that is and so he continues on with the desserts and eventually says there is chocolate cake. CHAOS ENSUES as everyone asks him how big the cake is, how many calories, etc. What the fuck, it's a dessert! You know it has a lot of calories, deal! As he's walking away our teenager says, "Excuse me, but I want some water." He asks if she wants lemon in it and she GLARES at him and just says, "Whatever, no, um, just no." I say, he just asked if we wanted refills and you didn't speak up then. She just stares at me. He puts in our orders and brings the check.
And here, ladies and gentlemen, is where I begin to throw a fit. Because an audible bitchfest begins about how bad the service was. The drinks were too slow. There wasn't enough salad. Our food came too quickly. Janet didn't like him (he was, by the way, clearly gay and it is known she's uncomfortable with gay men - you know what, men in general). The girl who used to work in a restaurant begins detailing all the ways she would have been in trouble if she had served like he had served.
I am PISSED. I start reminding them that the restaurant is busy, they got a party of seven seated within ten minutes, they filled all of our requests, and the waiter tried to be friendly. The whole time my boss is watching my face and she can see that I'm upset and so she tries to ask if 25% is too much. Now look: YES. I feel 15% - 20% is fine for good service and I think he did the best he could with the situation he had. My coworkers, especially Janet, get loud about how they would only give 15% for really good service, and according to them, he was not good service. I reiterate that he did a fine job given the situation and that 15% would be fine.
Again, meanwhile, and I know this is long but I need to vent, the waiter is boxing up our food, writing what it was and the date on it, boxing up the extra salad, giving us bags for the breadsticks. He even wrote us a little note on the comment card that recalled every detail we had told him the few times we did actually chat with him. So, anyway, our boss gives him 20% and we leave. On our way out he taps me on the shoulder and says that Janet forgot her box, so could I make sure she gets it? I say sure and thank him for everything. When I catch up to Janet and tell her she forgot her box, she says, "I didn't want that. He didn't even ask me if I wanted that. What the hell?" So I just snatch it out of her hands and walk to the car.
Our boss paid for everything. She picked up the whole bill. I tried to call her to talk to her, but she didn't answer. I know she knows I'm upset. I know she's avoiding me. So I will have to talk to her tomorrow. I'm going to ask her if she wants me to pay her back for my meal because it will make it easier for me to tell her I'm never going out with them again. This happens every fucking time. We've gone out for a few occasions this year and this happens EVERY FUCKING TIME. And I'm finally done with it. I'm done being completely embarrassed. It isn't a mandatory dinner so maybe they'll have more fun next year when they can complain about nonsense without being interrupted. I know I'll have more fun reading a book or watching TV.
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