TGIF

I realize it's been over a week now since I've posted.  And honestly, I do have a good excuse for it.  In case you haven't noticed, much of my writing has been about things that aren't necessarily *pleasant* to talk about.  I suppose I like talking about unpleasant things quite a bit, but fact be told, discussing all of the unpleasantries in my life will only bring about more of the like.  And so, with nothing negative to discuss, I haven't done much discussing. 


Until. Now.


From here on out, I'm ONLY going to write about the GOOD, GREAT, AWESOME things that are going on around me.  Remember how I was loathing work?  Well, I'm done with that.  Because I've made up my mind that I'm not staying there.  Something wonderful and--more or less--made just for me is going to come along and give me the opportunity of a lifetime!  Actually, I already applied for the job.  And I have to say, my cover letter preeeeetty much kicks ass.  Just saying.  Fingers crossed that they'll look over the fact that I don't have a bachelor's degree and (I suppose) no professional experience and give me a call.  


Aside from that, there are some stupendous things that I've allowed to cloud my mind the past few days:


1. Our BFFs bought a house that is almost literally right across the street from us!  We always said that (preferably after winning the jackpot) we would build our own subdivision and live near each other.  Well, since the lottery hasn't been drawn in our names yet, this is the next best thing!  And, after all, a new subdivision would mean a lack of greenery that I so desire.  While our house isn't perfect, it is in an ideal location.  
                                                  
                                                    BFFs, Ryan and Sera
                                                  (aren't they adorable?)


2. Mega-millionaires.  That's what we're going to be.  I know, I know--the odds of winning are like one in a hundred million thousand kaboodles.  But somebody has to win.  And that is going to be me.  I've already been planning what I'm going to do with the loot.  I figure--of a $540 million jackpot, I'd probably only "take home" about $300 million or so.  You know, after taxes and whatnot.   About $100 million would go to family and friends.  About $50 million would go straight to charity.  I always thought if I win the lottery, I'd give a good chunk to our local humane society.  So they could build a new, larger facility (the one they have now has been a bit hidden by the new overpass for the highway).  Then, too, they could hire more staff and take in more animals.  After that, I thought I'd start a foundation of sorts.  I'd call it something like "The Do-Good Grants" or "Pay-it-Forward Project," where people could apply for assistance in helping others in some way.  Even just small things, like paying someone's expenses who wants to help rebuild homes, helping their local humane society, food shelters looking for donations during the holidays, etc.  
We'd probably only end up keeping about $10-$20 million for ourselves.  Saving most of it.  As I said before, we really like where we live.  So buying a new house would be out of the question.  But of course we'd make all the necessary changes to bring it up to "dream home" status...an addition (up and out), landscaping, finishing off the basement, adding a second car stall to the garage.  We'd probably end up in a hotel for a few months while all the work was being done (or living with some family or friends in the meantime).  
As for work, I wouldn't even call to say I'm not coming in.  I'd just never show up.  Ever.  


3. Though small, I found a really neat (and FREE!) app on my phone.  For pictures.  Finally.  I kept thinking to myself, Why can't I do some gnarly editing on my pics like I see so many people are able to do?  Guess it just took some looking around to find the right app for it.  Here are some pics I've remastered:

My eyes really aren't *that* green.

Darling Addeline

Having fun with it.  And, probably letting it take up too much time.  Oh well.  

4. Back on the whole work topic...remember how I've been hating on the new girl?  Well, once I began to let go of the idea of being "stuck" at my job and having to deal with the kick to the ego and her "taking" the position that should have been mine, I decided to give her a shot.  I had to be honest with myself and realize that it was not her fault.  She's doing a fine job.  And I'm starting to like her more now that I'm actually giving her a chance.  Which is great because it makes going to work less taxing.  I've noticed things that should give us something to talk about, too.  For example, she has her lip pierced also and has a few (visible) tattoos.  So I think of that as opposed to the outrageously large truck she drives or the John Deere lanyard or the fact that she just bought some chickens.  And, to be honest, one of my best friends is a farmgirl so I really can't judge.  All in all, I've been trying to see the things I have in common with people instead of the things that we do not.

...finding the good in life, one day at a time...

St. Patrick's Day and a literal broken heart

I had just turned 17.  Literally.  My birthday had been just three days before.  On my birthday, I had taken a chance and went to a nearby tattoo/body piercing studio to get my eyebrow pierced.  As luck would have it, the guy who pierced me either couldn't count or didn't care that I was technically not old enough in the state of Illinois to get pierced.  With my eyebrow feeling as if it were sticking out a mile off my face, I went home that evening with reluctance, wondering what my parents would say.  I wasn't too concerned about my mom--she was a bit more lenient when it came to self-expression.  My dad, on the other hand, was much more conservative in that respect.  And, as I knew already, my mom was just fine with it (though not really a big fan) and my dad wouldn't even look me in the face.  Such is life, I thought, and went about life as usual.


The previous July, I had lost my grandma.  She had been in a long battle with (I'm a poor excuse for remembering medical conditions) something that affected her lungs (not cancer).  As she slowly deteriorated, it became more and more difficult--for everyone--to see her suffer.  Though it was the first death of someone important in my life, I understood that it was best.  I may have cried harder than ever before at her wake and funeral (for me, for my mom, for my grandpa), but I knew that she was no longer suffering and that thought made it easier to swallow.  


The following months were even harder.  They were really, really difficult for my grandpa.  I knew people to be in love, but to this day, I can't say I have seen two people who were so great for each other.  They had been married for 55 years.  Fifty-five long, beautiful years.  (I can only hope to aspire to that.)  And after she passed, my grandpa seemed to lose all joy in life.  He would go through the motions, be kind and caring, but you could just see the pain at the loss of his one true love in his eyes.  I even went with my boyfriend (now husband) to the animal shelter to try and find him a cat to keep him company (I wound up getting Dexter, my dear deceased dog, instead).  


Everyone took turns staying with him a few nights throughout the week.  You have to figure, after living with someone for so long, that the most difficult part is just being alone.  Completely alone, in the house you lived together in for almost a lifetime.  I took a turn, too.  Stayed over at his house one night.  I used to love staying at my grandparents' house.  I did quite often as a child.  I could go on about the memories I had staying there (sleeping next to my grandma, remembering them waking up suuuuper early, being weirded-out by their lack of teeth in the morning).  But this time it was different.  I felt so out of place.  I knew that nothing I could say or do could take away any bit of the broken-heartedness he was feeling.


My grandpa turned 90 years old on March 10th, 2002.  A week after his birthday, my mom, along with her brother and sister, had gone to my grandpa's house.  It was late morning and they were cooking breakfast.  Eggs, as I recall.  Scrambled eggs.  And, most likely, some toast.  My grandpa sat and ate his in the chair he always sat in.  But before he could finish, he had a heartattack.  (They would later laugh and joke that my mom's eggs were what killed him.)


Somewhere around noon, I was just finishing getting ready and about to bound down the stairs when I overheard my dad calling my brothers into the kitchen.  I can only (to this day, still) assume that he was still mad at me for getting the piercing, as he failed to call me into the room.  From the top of the stairs, I heard him tell my two older brothers that our grandpa had died of a heartattack that morning.  Without leaving any room for questions, answers or explanations, I grabbed my purse and ran out the door.


I don't know what I expected to find at my grandpa's house.  Obviously, they wouldn't still be there.  But that's where I went.  And, at a time without as many cell phones (I think I had one, but my mom surely did not), I was unable to find out where they had gone.  I'm not really sure what I wanted to find.  Whether I wanted to be told that he would be alright, or see him one last time, or to know that his (though not medically diagnosed) suffering would be over.  But since I couldn't reach those whom I truly wanted to reach, I did what any teenage girl would do and went to see my boyfriend at his work.  He comforted me for the time his boss allowed him to step out and then I retreated home.


At his funeral, the tone was much different than it had been at my grandma's.  All funerals are sad, but this time, the overall feeling was one of peace.  With my grandma, we all felt the heavy heart my grandpa felt at the time.  But with that gone, we were able to accept the joy. The joy that they both must have felt to be together again. Anyone who knows me, knows my feelings of skepticism when it comes to the afterlife.  Though these wonderings have grown over the years, in my heart of hearts I know that they are somehow, someway, in some form, together.  


So, while for many people, St. Patrick's Day is a day of--well--drinking, for me it was the day that my grandpa's heart finally broke.  After everyone trying with all their might for nearly 8 months to try and patch it back together again, he finally let go, knowing that the only way it would be able to heal was if he just let it break.  


10 years: seems like a lifetime ago, and yet, yesterday.
I miss you so, grandpa.  

The effects of a good book

I'm always hesitant to begin reading a new book.  For a long time, I just thought that I was much too picky.  I judged books by their covers for sure.  And I was never really sure what types of books would actually interest me.  I knew I liked true stories.  Funny, witty, quirky stories.  Never was I a fan of many classics.  I found them boring and I always wondered whether or not they actually put as much effort into creating symbolism and irony and basing themes and plot lines on the then-current political situations.  I never understood why, especially when a good book surfaced in our reading classes, we weren't allowed to just take it at face value and appreciate a good book without having to delve into the undertones.  Don't get me wrong, I love finding the hidden messages in books.  And I loved writing papers based on those findings.  Mostly because I was always good at both of those things.  But maybe, too, that was part of the reason I never hunted for a good read on my own: I was so used to finding the meaning in everything that I didn't want to over-think a really simple book.
 

My husband borrowed the book, The Hunger Games from his sister about two months ago.  She gave rave reviews, and after seeing the preview of the movie when we went to see The Muppets, I suppose we were both a bit intrigued.  I, however, thought it would be more likely that I see the movie first and maybe one day read the book.  My husband, on the other hand, gratefully read the book his sister lent him, followed by the second and third in the series.  I brushed it off a bit when he would try telling me about the book.  I wasn't interested.  I would see the movie and decide from there whether or not the book would be worth my while (being that books are usually better than the movies--if the movie were good, the book would be great).  


The end of February also brought the end of the boundless life that was my dog.  Living with my parents since I had married and moved out  (about 5 years now), I was the one who brought him home, named him, trained him, rough-housed with him, and loved him since 2001.  That's not to say that the rest of the family wasn't totally head over heels for him, too.  My parents babied him.  Let him take over the couch.  Took him, sometimes, to holiday gatherings.  I even had a few pictures taken with him on my wedding day.  

It was a shock (more or less) when he passed.  From what I heard of the story, he had tried to sneak some chips from the coffee table, only to find my dad's foot in his side, kicking him away.  My mom, hearing the racket, shooed him outside for a while.  Upon his return indoors, he proceeded to lay down in the living room, unmoving.  To make a long, sad story short, they brought him to the animal hospital, where they found out that a cancerous tumor, most likely on his liver, had ruptured.  There was little to no hope that he would have made it the car ride to the 24-hour animal emergency hospital about an hour away (and even more uncertainty about how he would handle surgery), so they let him go.  The point I was getting to (no, I have not forgotten, I know sometimes I get off track) is that as a result of this, I reread The Art of Racing in the Rain.  In something like a record 3 days.  For me, that's fast.  I also work and have two girls under 3, two dogs, a husband, and a house to tend to.  It jumpstarted my yearning for more good books.


Finally, at my husband's urging, I began to read The Hunger Games.  As per usual, it took a few chapters to really get into the book.  And once I did, it was difficult to put it down.  Within about a week, I flew through the rest of the series.  I was afraid that the blood, guts, gore and suspense would hinder any hope for pleasant dreams at night, but I had to get through it.  I became engulfed in my reading, staying up hours past the time I would normally hit the hay.  


At one point, after I finished the second book, I considered waiting a week or so to begin the third.  I relayed this to my husband one night when he asked me how I was enjoying the books--my consideration to put my reading on hold.  He asked, "Is it because you have children now, that you can't imagine having to send them into the games?  Picturing yourself in the book?" The thought hadn't crossed my mind.  I know better than to believe anything like that could happen in our world (or do I?).  But, no, it wasn't that.  As I've gotten older and my search for myself has progressed, I have come to realize one major flaw in my genetic makeup: anxiety.  It was present in junior high, when I'd get butterflies on the drive to school.  It was there when I fell in love with my husband, just seeing him would fill my face with red.  It is always there, whenever I am forced to confront any sort of "issue" that has been on my mind--the shaking in my voice, my mind, my entire body, as if at any second I will burst into tears, even if it isn't something sad.  For some time I have considered consulting my doctor about it.  But as I sit here now, I realize that it makes up who I am.  


With the ending of the second book, I was too intrigued to let the third one sit on the shelf for much more than half the day.  I dove in and finished it within 2 days.  A funny thing happened, though, as I was working yesterday.  I began comparing my life to the book.  I am in no way a Katniss Everdeen.  Mostly, I am pleasant.  I think I like to think of myself as harder than I really am.  Tough.  As my defense, I use sarcasm.  Dry humor.  Dodge questions from people I don't really want to talk to.  I can be mean, but rarely to someone's face.  If I actually am, I suppose I don't realize it.  So I guess in that way, I may be like Katniss.  And, I suppose, I can be gullible and follow along with a plan to save the ones I really love.  And yeah, I guess my biggest fight is the fight I have to find and save myself.


But as I swept the floor at work last night, I pictured it as part of a game.  My boss, President Snow.  My co-workers, the other pledges.  Some allies, some enemies.  And he puts us as odds against each other.  Maybe my boss is a previous victor and mentor for the new girl at work, my biggest enemy.  And they fight hard to try to get me to break.  I've been falling apart at work for weeks now.  And everyday I tell myself this is it, I can't do it anymore.  But of course, bills have to be paid and I have to keep up my end.  But yesterday, being my birthday (stupid me for not requesting the day off) and being stuck at work with my two biggest enemies, I'd had it.  The new girl came in (mind you, she is still a cashier at the moment, NOT a shift manager), didn't even say hello, put her drawer in and slithered away to ask the boss what he wanted her to do.  If I haven't mentioned this before, the unspoken (though known) way to do it is: when you come in, you ring and let the other person get up for a while.  It's really just this air of superiority that she carries which drives me nuts.  So many times last night, I thought of myself as Katniss Everdeen, tempted to pull an arrow from my shoulder and aim it straight for her heart. I found myself trying to think of ways to get her fired.  I had confronted a co-worker with the question, How does one get fired? and, after some discussion, realized the only way we have seen people get fired is for stealing.  I can't force someone to steal, so it would have to be set-up.  And one offense wouldn't do it.  It would take several wrongdoings.  Which would have to be thought out carefully.  And I'd probably need to enlist the efforts of at least two of my allies.  Putting things in her purse?  Leaving the office with only her and our cash drawers in there, only to come in to reconcile the drawer, finding it short.  Perhaps drawing her in to some sort of harassment.   


Of course, this is all just daydreaming on my part.  Just like daydreaming about telling my boss to fuck off, that I quit.  THAT day, however, I am determined to make happen sooner than later.  As with most things, actually trying to get my co-worker fired will take too much effort and probably wouldn't even satisfy me in the longrun.  The best I can hope for is finding something else....anything else, short of taking my clothes off, to make a living.  For now.  Because I obviously have hopes and dreams.  My biggest battle is just not to get picked-off in the meantime, not let the actions (openly hostile and offensive or otherwise) of others to bring me down.


I suppose until the day comes that I can finally bid that place adieu (which, with the help of an angry facebook status update and an old friend, may be soon enough), I just have to put on my poker face; pretend that nothing bothers me and bust my ass until I get where I want.


I can be a girl on fire, too.

me+parenting = more patience

Working within the industry that I do, there are many people you remember throughout the years.  While some of them, you find, are there almost every day or, more specifically, at a certain time on certain days of the week (there is one woman who always comes in on Friday nights around 7:30 pm), there are others who have, for one reason or another, left an impression on you.  For some, it may be that they are always kind or remind me of someone important in my life: there is one old man (who, thinking now, I haven't seen in quite a while) who reminds me of my grandpa.  Besides the fact that he's old and friendly, the thing that really did it was when he started singing "Katie, K-K-K-Katie!! You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore..."  Though it is a bit of a generational song (and I'm sure for many folks that age, a girl named Katie is sure to spark remembrance of the tune), there is the sentimental part of me that still thinks of my grandpa singing it to me as a little girl.  


I worked for the company for two years before I had my first daughter.  In just that short amount of time, certain things about me had changed.  I always thought that I was an easy-going, go-with-the-flow type of girl.  I was friendly.  All the time.  To everyone.  I understood that each person's mood and attitude was affected by their circumstances and tried to be patient when it came to difficult customers.  I was really good at hiding any sort of annoyance that I felt when it came to the crabby, rude and intimidating customers.


But little by little, the longer I worked there, the more I realized just how awful some people could be--and for no reason at all!  It began to wear on me.  More often than not, I walked in the door with a sour mood, knowing that I had yet another day of biting my tongue ahead of me.  Though it sometimes got to me, I knew that I needed a job.  With the economy heading down the shitter, I still needed to the rent and the bills, and this job was all I had.  So biting my tongue became a daily thing.  I'd come home after rough days, pry my mouth open and let the blood spill.  I don't mean that I reaped havoc on those around me, but I let all the petty crap from the day out over a cup-o-joe and a few cigarettes with my roommates (three best friends and my husband). 


I can clearly recall my first encounter with one particular woman.  At about 4'10", she was about 4' around as well.  With dark hair, dark eyes, and clothed in a sloppy shirt and what I would guess were pajama pants, she strolled up to my line with a full cart, including a child in the front.  When the person in front of her was done gathering up their things, she was about half-way done unloading her things onto the conveyor belt.  As we like to keep things moving, I began to ring her items up and place them into a spare basket (which all cashiers have on hand when ringing).  


Tired and annoyed, she looked at me and said, "Can you wait to use my cart?"
Rolling my eyes (I thought out of her sight), I pushed my cart behind me a bit and sighed.
"Are you having a bad day?" she questioned, catching me off guard.
"Excuse me?" I had to say something so I could gather my marbles.
"It seems like you're having a bad day.  You're being very rude."
Again, I was taken aback.  Whaaaat?  Someone willing to say exactly what was on their mind?  How jealous I was! Why can't I do that?  Oh...wait...because she could easily call corporate and that would be the end of this job for me.  And, as we discussed earlier, I needed it.  As much as I hated it, I needed it.  I'm just not the type of person who can up and quit, thinking (hoping, knowing) something better would come along. 
With that thought in my head and what felt like every last drop of blood in my body rushing to my face, I replied, "No ma'am. I'm very sorry. I was not meaning to be rude."  


Argh, the humbling effect of being put in my place.  It was not something I was used to and not at all something that felt very good.  The me before I worked there would never had needed to be put in her place.   She knew where she stood and was always very kind, considerate and thoughtful of everyone.  That moment stuck in my head.  Obviously, its still stuck in my head.  For a long time I resented the woman who called me out on having an attitude.  


In July of 2009, my first daughter, Addeline was born.  After a brief labor, followed my a surprise (and emergency?) c-section, she burst into my life with a power I never before understood.  The first few weeks at home were hard.  We slept on the main level, as I wasn't supposed to go up and down stairs.  I woke with her through the night, cradled her to sleep on my chest, napped in the afternoons, and rarely got out of my pajamas.  I soaked up all the rest and relaxation I could, as I never had surgery of that sort before.  Between the first and third month, she began being a bit colicky.  She had stretches of crying, only to be soothed by me.  I guess its being the mother--the caregiver, the life source.  I felt bad for my husband when, after 8 weeks, I returned to work.  Lucky for him, we were both on the same schedule, and so most evenings when I had to work, his father, sister, or my parents, would watch Addie.  I felt bad for them, too.  It broke their hearts every time she would cry, unable to be soothed, for hours on end.  


With those 8 weeks of nonstop childcare under my belt, I returned to work with a new found patience.  While it was a bit of an escape for me to return to work (I was in need to some time away, so that I could enjoy the time I was home more), I worked even harder than before, so that I may get home to spend time with the ones I loved.  Beaming as a new mother does, I felt more joy in the work I did.  I saw things in a whole new light.  I was the person I had been before, only better.


And that woman who pointed out my misgivings?  I still see her.  She probably comes in once a week or so.  But as a fellow mother, I get it now.  We do it all: care for our children, chase them around at home and at the store, work, work, work, run to the store in our pajamas (my husband's BIGGEST pet peeve), and hope that the cashier in line understands when we don't want to move our case of water or the kids to a new cart.

air drummer extraodinare

Music is, to say the least, a very important part of my life.  As for many people, it is an escape, an outlet, a pick-me-up, and something that creates camaraderie among those I hold nearest and dearest.  


After having my first daughter, I got back into the swing of opening shifts at work rather quickly.  These shifts include "throwing the load"...stocking the shelves.  Unlike the large grocery store chains, who may stock the shelves throughout the day and night, we wake up before the sun rises and get all the stocking done before the doors open at 9 am.  On an easy day, I may have about 6 pallets to unload onto the floor.  On a more difficult day, 10-12.  All to be completed within four hours.


Being such a small store, you'd think that maybe we'd have a system to air music while you shop (or, in this case, while we stock), but that is not true.  And so, with nothing to hear but the buzzing of the lights, I would bring my iPod and jam out while I throw the load in the morning.  In this case, it becomes an escape, a wake-me-up and a pick-me-up.  At 5 am, I am still considered to be in zombie mode until I plug the ear buds in and sync up the chosen soundtrack for the morning.  It most certainly has to be something upbeat.  And I most certainly must be able to sing along.  Though a bit bashful at first (I can't sing to save my life), I eventually gave up trying to conceal my attempts at stardom in (quietly) belting out my favorite tunes.  


On one particular morning, I was going through the usual routine of unloading all of the pallets. A little more than half-way through, I was bringing the empty pallet that I had just finished into the backroom to toss all of the unneeded cardboard into the baler (the machine that smashes all of the cardboard into the nice, 6x4x4 square to be hauled off and recycled), 

when the most awesome of all awesome drum solos came a 'blaring in my ears.  I say that, though I can't recall exactly which song it was.  Anyway, I pull the pallet around the corner by the baler and stop just in time to whip out my invisible drum sticks and start playing along.  Totally wrapped up in the song, I didn't even notice my manager coming out of the freezer.  As I opened my eyes and turned to throw something in the baler, I caught sight of him walking towards me, laughing.  Turning every shade of red under the sun, I nervously laughed along. 


"Hey, whatever it takes," he says.


Four hours of work in the morning: $57.
iPod: $199.
Boss catching my air drum solo: sheer embarrassment.
Hitting every beat during the air drum solo: Priceless.


Some things are worth the embarrassment.

A bit of normalcy in workplace gossip

Just a few months back, after I had my second daughter, I was at my doctor's office for a post-op visit.  After checking in, I sat a seat in one of the many seating options: three couches, five or six large armchairs and a few other, smaller single-seater chairs.  I picked one that was centrally located, just across from the door I'd be going into and just in front of the reception window.  With several other people in the waiting room, I grabbed a magazine, knowing that I'd need it to pass the inevitable time before I met with the doctor.  


One by one, the other women filed through the doors, where they met with one of three doctors who are part of the practice.  Finally, it was down to me and one other woman who had come out of one door and was speaking with the receptionists.  Very clearly within earshot.  I can't remember the exact conversation, but I do recall thinking, Ok, we get you're pregnant, but this is a little overkill as far as having an attitude. I mean, she was rude.  And again, I get when you're preggo and huge and wanting the damn spawn of satan out of your gut...I. Get. It. I had just been there.  But I could tell that this woman used the term "bitch" on her business card.  Ie: Tina McCrabbypants, Bitch Extraordinaire. 


So when she was called to through the opposite door that she originally came out of, I overheard the receptionists laughing and complaining about her.  "Yeah, she's always been like that!  I mean, even before she was pregnant I remember her coming in and she's always been really rude. I feel sorry for her kids. I mean seriously, how was she even able to find someone willing to have children with her??"


As a human being and someone who clearly saw the encounter that had just ensued, I laughed. They gave me a nervous smile as they noticed I was listening and I just nodded my head along with them.  Because let's be honest.  There are people who rightfully deserve all the gossip and negative comments that others speak of them.  And, as I have gladly found, its not just my job where people shit-talk others all the time. 


I actually just read an article today in a magazine about gossip.  The woman who wrote it was referring to the gossip that she partakes in about other mothers, children and generally people within her child's school.  She wrote, though, that although it can be problematic to participate in such behavior at times, it is a social thing.  And, even while we may feel guilty participating in useless gossip, it can be just as frowned-upon to NOT participate in it.  Those who stay out of it can be seen as "the bad guy," who will tattle on those who are doing the talking.  


So where and when should the line be drawn?  And is it really such a big deal to speak what is on your mind?  Sometimes I wish we were living the movie The History of Lying. How nice it would be just to say what we really feel at all times.  How much easier things would be if when someone asked me, "How are you today?"  I could be honest and reply, "Really shitty.  That customer in front of you...could they be much more stupid?  I mean really...if you only have $42 on you, your cart should not be that full in the first place. What do they think this is...1972?  A dollar does not stretch that far...anywhere anymore."


Instead, on a good day, I reply with, "Good.  And you?"  On a bad day, "Fine.  And you?"  Makes things much easier.  And, apparently, then I don't have to deal with Steve coming up and telling me I need to keep conversations with coworkers about the schedule to the office or break room.  


On a positive note, the very first customer who came through my line yesterday was a little old lady, who was just buying some grapes.  When she approached, I said hello and asked how she was doing.  "Oh, just fine," she replied, "but I have to ask: how long as that man back there been working here?  He has a bad attitude!"  She actually went on for quite some time about how she doesn't live too far away, but would be sure not to come back to our store again because he makes shopping there an unpleasant experience.  I nodded my head and slightly agreed with her, making sure not to speak too loudly (heaven forbid any other customer overhears and discloses my contempt for him).  


It was a small victory, hearing from a complete stranger that my boss is a negative nancy.  I tried to remember that as he was reprimanding me at the end of my shift.  


I'll try and make it a goal to not speak my mind with coworkers quite so often.  But I really don't feel bad about it.  

Schedule This

As I last stated, I had this conversation with my manager recently about possibly taking on the role of a shift manager.  I was hired into my current position with the impression that after learning what I needed as a cashier, I would be given the opportunity to move into a higher, better paid position of shift manager.  After a few months working there, we got a new store manager.  After only a few months of him being there, we had a DM trainee come to run our store for a while.  Once he was gone and our store manager came back, I was just about ready to mention the topic when I found out I was pregnant.  After the birth of my first child, we already had too many shift managers and the need simply wasn't there.  So I waited.  Again.  And realized they put up with too much shit anyway--something I really didn't want.


Time went by, I had another child.  Just before Christmas this past year, one shift manager hurt her wrist and has been out since.  It's up in the air as to whether or not she will return.  Shortly after the first was injured, another got in a car accident and broke her pelvis in several spots.  My husband had been urging me to try to push further within my job, so long as I'm there.  He knows it's not my dream job (or that I have any intention of staying for yet another five years), but thought moving up is an aspiration in itself and I should try to better my position while I'm there.  Ok.  Yeah, I suppose I agree.  And so, with two shift managers being out for an extended (to say the least) period of time, I decided to approach my manager and offer my assistance and take on a higher role.  Yes, the pay increase would be a plus, but in all honesty, I really was just trying to help.  I knew that the other two shift managers wanted as many hours as possible and if I were to become one, I would only get the leftover shifts that no one else could work--a backup of sorts.


Before I get too far ahead of myself, I have to inform you of the way the schedule works at our store.  My manager (let's call him "Steve") writes out the schedule for the next week and posts it on Mondays (usually).  Since I have been back from maternity leave, my schedule has been pretty consistent: a few nights during the week--usually two or three shifts from 3-9, a mid-shift on Wednesdays--1-8, and one or both days on the weekend.  He rarely makes much of a change in the schedules, unless someone requests a day off here or there.  His schedule is absolutely, 100% the same: Monday-5-3, Tuesday-5-3, Wednesday-11-9, Thursday-5-3, Friday-off, Saturday-5-3, Sunday-off.  Unless he has to work a Sunday (they rotate).  The other shift managers generally close most nights, occasionally open during the week with him, and open on Wednesdays and Fridays (when they don't have to be in at 5 am to "throw the load," or stock shelves, as most would call it).  Pretty much routine.  


The day that the one shift manager got into a car accident, Steve called me up and told me.  He also made it a point to tell me that with this inconvenience, I may need to have a little more flexibility in my schedule.  In other words, that I may have to work a few more mid-shifts throughout the week.  I told him, no big deal, my father-in-law is still home and could probably watch the girls, if need be. Its been two months and he has yet to schedule me any mid-shifts aside from Wednesdays.  Which...whatever.  I don't really care.  It was simply annoying that he made it a point to demand that of me and then never follow through.  So I had mentioned this at one point to one of the shift managers (we'll call her "Alex").  She apparently took that to mean that I was upset with my hours and wanted more, and also took it upon herself to tell him this.  And then tell me that she told him.  Ugh.


Furthermore, I find out that he decided to bring this girl (who has been with the store for maybe 6 months) from another store to be trained as a shift manager.  Hm.  Which, again, is fine and dandy.  After all, he had told me that if I were to be a shift manager, I would need to be 100% available for any and all shifts (anywhere from 5 am-10 pm).  That's all a little difficult when you have 2 children under the age of 3 and a husband who works 5:30 am until 2 pm Monday through Friday (and sometimes Saturday and Sunday).  


So back on to the conversation we had this past Saturday...  He had come in to write some orders and I was working.  Immediately when I saw him, I felt my blood pressure rise like I just wanted to go up and punch him in the face.  But, of course, I knew better.  Instead, I approached him calmly in the office and asked to talk to him.  I told him that I didn't understand why Alex felt it was necessary to tell him that I was mad about hours when all I had said was that he never put me on other midshifts when he had made it a point that I needed to be open for them.  Alright, fine, that went over well enough.  "Yeah," he says, "I didn't really understand what she was saying.  We had just talked about the scheduling not that long ago and so I figured if you had an issue, you would have just said something."  Yes.  Fact.


And I continue, "Look, I know that you're bringing in a girl from another store to train as a shift manager.  And I get it.  You need the open availability.  Which I clearly cannot give you right now.  But...and I don't want this to come off the wrong way, but if she comes here and the only "shift" shifts that she gets are--like--Wednesday mornings and closing shifts or weekends, I will be mad.  Because I can do that."  And that's where he starts going on about "well, you know, the DM and Director of Operations are the ones who would want to know that you have an open availability and I just can't..." blah blah blah.  Pin it on someone else.  He told me flat out that those are the shifts that this girl will get.  And I know they are.  Because he writes the same schedule every goddamn week. 


It irks me.  And I know it shouldn't.  Because I hate my job.  I have hated it since I started.  I would absolutely be appalled with myself if in another 5 years I am still working at the same place.  


So the morning after I had this conversation with him, I was looking on craigslist for a washing machine because ours broke.  On a whim, I decided to check and see if anyone interesting was hiring.  Just so happened that I came across an opening for an editor position for a small family magazine.  Immediately, my doubts came rushing in: I don't have a 4-year degree, I haven't worked with InDesign in years, I have no "professional" experience as a writer, and I certainly don't have anyone that I still keep in contact with who could be a good reference.  I tossed it around in my mind for nearly two days.  But after a long, shitty day at work on Monday (and on the verge on going through my yearly depression-ridden, panic attack), I was on my way to bed around midnight and I thought If I don't do this now, I never will. I had this drive in me that said DO IT! APPLY!  NOW!!  


At 12:37 am I sent off the most non-traditional cover letter (along with my sad excuse for a resume) to apply for the position.  I had considered it in the past: writing a non-traditional cover letter.  My husband had talked me out of it.  But this time, I was awake, by myself, with no one to hold me back.  So I just laid it all out there.  I explained all of the things that made me doubt applying (crappy "jobs," no professional experience, no references).  I also explained, though, that I love to write.  More than anything.  And that I have been putting myself on the backburner for years and am finally ready, willing, able and passionate about finding something that I love.  Well, and that the other thing that I really love (my family) is what I could be writing about!  What more could they ask for??  


I haven't heard back.  Yet.  But I have been praying on this.  Which is a big deal for me.  Because I don't pray.  I have wishful thinking all the time.  But I don't pray.  (Maybe sometime down the road I'll get to that topic, but for now, just know I don't pray.)  I daydreamed all day about getting the call from the President of the magazine and about how I'm going to tell Steve that I quit.  I walked around work all day today with a smug smile on my face.  And I even got to leave early!


And then it happened.  I was doing my drawer and Steve says to me, "Oh, just something really quick--there was a mystery shop last week or something.  And it was you and Jennifer working.  Well, under the part where it asks, 'did the cashier say goodbye or have a nice day?' or whatever, they wrote that you and Jennifer were chatting, talking about the schedule."  Now, I have no idea what the eff this could be.  I never talk to Jennifer about anything that's bugging me at work because she's only been "helping out" for the past month or so.  "You know," he says, "you guys were probably just chatting, but when it gets back to corporate that you were discussing the schedule, it looks pretty bad.  Just be sure to keep that sort of talk to the office or break room."


Of course.  Right after I had a talk with him about the schedule.  And yeah, I've probably been bitching my ass off for weeks now to everyone and in front of everyone about how much I hate my job.  Ha, my luck, somehow they'll see my blog--my blog that has been up for--what?--three days?--and fire me.  


I'm not going to let it get me down.  I'll keep "doing my work" just as well as ever.  But that day is coming soon.  I feel it.  I've never wanted out so bad.  


I really hope this year is my year.     

beginning again

So, I have this thing that some people like to call a job.  And, while I am absolutely grateful for it (I realize there are many people who can't say that), I mostly hate it.  It has its perks: benefits and whatnot.  But I can't even begin to tell you how it feels to work at my job.  I suppose, though, that must also have something to do with how it feels to simply be me.  


I could absolutely never run for President.  If I were to, people would be one hundred percent correct in calling me a flip-flopper.  But it's not that I don't have morals or a set opinion on different issues; I actually have very high morals and many, many opinions.  I just see things differently.  I can see multiple sides to most issues.  I can see the heart's and the brain's side of every story.  And when it comes to work, it is no different. 


I hate that I have been there for almost five years, but I'm glad to have had the stability through marriage, children, and homeownership.  I love leaving for work some days, but by the  end of the night, I'm wishing I were at home.  I like my co-workers, but sometimes they drive me crazy.  I can't stand getting new people, I want everything done a certain way, but I will not move into management.  I refuse.  That, and I've been denied.  Not that I couldn't do it or wouldn't be able to handle it.  "You just don't have the availability," my manager tells me.  And this is the conversation that drove me back to writing.  In the entire waste of 20 minutes with my manager, the one thing that didn't leave me brokenhearted and beaten up was this:


He tells me, "I mean, if you really have a passion for this company and see yourself moving into MT at some point, then yeah, the next logical step is being a shift manager.  But if you don't see that, it's really not worth it.  If you look at the pay increase--a couple bucks for a few hours each week, it's really not worth the hassle." 


And I knew that.  I've known that all along.  I don't want to stay here.  I wanted to quit after 6 months.  I see the bullshit and drama that the shift managers deal with and I've never wanted to deal with that.  Hell, I was on the verge of heartattack just having to bring up a touchy subject with my manager.  Telling others what to do?  Ha!  I even thought about becoming a district manager at one point. I looked online at what they require when it comes to DMs.  College degree in business or the like, at least a 3.0 GPA and the ability to get through the DM training program (which includes learning all of the other positions first, starting at the bottom of the totem pole).  What did my DM tell me when I inquired about this?


Me: Hey, so I was thinking of finishing up my degree, I only have two years left, and I was thinking about Business Management and then trying to get into the DM program here.  Do you think that would work to my benefit--you know, since I've already had experience with the company?


DM: Um, well, you're still full time, right?  So how would you go back to school? Since you have to have open availability?  I mean, unless you can find a school which operates between like 10 pm and 5 am. 


Me: Yeah, well, I was going to look into an online program, so that I can work at my own pace more or less. 


DM:  Oh, yeah.  Well, you know, they generally go to different colleges and look for students to do internships and whatnot from there.  And also, they require at least a 3.0 GPA...is that...something that you have??


Me: Well, yeah...my GPA is at like 3.8.


DM: Oh! Well, yeah, I'd just say you'd have to be sure that you're still available to work any time.


And, after talking with a co-worker about this conversation, found that the company is against hiring current employees for corporate positions like this.  Besides, I thought, I think being a douchebag is also part of the requirements.  And I just don't have that in me.


So here I've been: doing the same monotonous job for nearly 5 years. And I'm stuck in this never-ending catch-22.  Do I leave? And if I do, what can I do? I have an associate's degree, which is not exactly preferred among employers.  Why hire someone with two years college instead of four? Or six or eight, for that matter.  Besides, the jobs that could potentially hire me wouldn't pay as well and wouldn't have the flexibility or benefits that my current job does.  Going back to school would cost an arm and a leg--and for what? I'd probably end up like half the college grads out there, deep in debt over a piece of paper and still no one looking to hire.  But to stay?  I've just literally sat for several minutes to try and come up with a way to describe how it feels going to work each day.  It's difficult.  Like I should be on Undercover Boss or something.  As if one day, I'm just going to say "Surprise! I'm actually your boss!" But that day never comes.  It's the opposite of that humbling feeling that those bosses feel after they've been in the other people's shoes.  I know I am better than this job. 


I swear I will get out.  I have to.  At least this is a step in the right direction.