So last time I was in a funk about some stuff at work. You know, the usual stuff: bosses, obnoxious customers. Not much has changed since, but I do feel better now then I did then. I had the day off yesterday, and that did some good. I got to relax, hang out with some friends, treat myself to a soothing at home spa treatment. Now I'm ready for more come the night time when I punch in for work.
My sleep pattern, on the other hand, is really messed up. It's morning; I had just waken up, meaning I had slept during the night. Since I work the graveyard shift, I should have been up during the night, turning in for bed come the morning. What this means now is that I am too awake, of course, to sleep during the day since having already slept, and come nighttime, when it's time for work, I'll be too sleepy to do my job.
Eh...boring shit, I know. My life isn't very exciting, as you can tell. No jet setting around the world for me. No lunching with beautiful people, or shopping at trendy stores, or hopping from one exclusive club to another every night. Just work, sleep, and catch up sleep seven days a week. If I'm lucky I'll money and time to check out a movie with J and our friends, maybe go out for dinner. I don't even get Thanksgiving off, which is the best time for us to hang out with friends. More than likely I'll get Christmas off, but I don't care much about that holiday because my enjoyment of it is very particular. I have to have all the right things set in place: the right decorations, the right tree, the right holiday music, the right food and the right company. Anything less than that just doesn't feel like Christmas to me. And anyway, that's the time most of us fly back home and force ourselves to stand the company of our relations.
My family and I don't really talk, so I don't see them for the holidays. And J's family is a bunch of lunatic Jehova's Witnesses. As part of their wacko religion they don't recognize holidays.
Still, I guess it's better to have Christmas off than not.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Graveyard Sucks
I have to keep telling myself that it's only a fucking job. But it just gets to you sometimes, you know? You bust your ass to work hard, to do everything right, to give it your all, and the only reward you get out of it is not getting fired. A lot of old timers keep telling me that there used to be a time when you had something to show for your effort: a nice home, a generous retirement, a highly esteemed reputation within the company. Well, it ain't like that anymore. Now there's only shit pay, long hours, and punishment for making mistakes.
If you haven't guessed by now, I had a pretty bad day at work. Actually, it was a pretty bad night, I should say, since I work the graveyard shift. The night itself wasn't so bad if you don't count all the annoying homeless people who give you hard time; but come the morning, just ten minutes before clocking out and riding high, looking forward to a hard earned day off, my supervisor counts my register and grimly reports that it's short five dollars. And, she adds, yesterday it was short fourteen dollars. Talk about taking all the air out of my little balloon. I honestly don't know how my register came up short. I try so hard to be exact. One more screw up like that and I'll get probated, and suffer further humiliation by having someone watch over me while I ring. I almost broke out in tears--almost. I refuse to cry in public.
But for an agonizingly long ten minutes I had to hold it all in and keep ringing up sales, like a good little store monkey. I didn't do a very good job at keeping my composure. Even if I didn't cry, my attitude was still kind of pissy. That's because the guy I was checking out was a right dickface idiot who couldn't tell his own ass from a hole in the ground.
I don't want to get into what happened there. What happened is what always happens with customers, because customers are all the same: spoiled, helpless little children with a self-entitltement complex--all because they're spending money on you, and have been brought up in that good ol' American aphorism 'The customer is always right.' I can't think of a more corruptible phrase. By the way customers act their cash couldn't have been holier if it had fallen out of the Virgin Mary's ginny. Okay, the whole of them aren't that bad. But they come pretty damn close.You can measure their egos in dollars and cents; no matter how much or how little they spend they're trading more than just currency--they're trading sacrifice of dignity and self respect. And boy, do I know the feeling every time I had to steal away into a bathroom stall and just grit my teeth. I know dollar is never just a dollar. Even when you have it right there in your hand, it doesn't seem to exist. At least, that's the way it is for poor fucks like me. Our money doesn't 'grow,' as in make a profit, and neither do we get to keep it for very long. Over time, a numbness sets in after seeing bank accounts of less then twenty dollars month after month. Every day you go to work it feels like you're doing time. For eight hours you're stuck there. You're not free to do what you want, to say what you want, or to be your own person, and the hours drag and drag with you doing the same old routine you did the night before: scan, ring, bag...scan, ring, bag...scan, ring, bag. Work feels like forever, but the money never stays. In my case, it goes straight to those things needed to keep me alive and sane, which is ironic since working so hard for it stresses my body and spirit.
It's just a job. It's just stupid job.
This is my mantra.
Actually, I feel a bit better now that I've written about it. Hopefully my next entry won't be such a downer.
If you haven't guessed by now, I had a pretty bad day at work. Actually, it was a pretty bad night, I should say, since I work the graveyard shift. The night itself wasn't so bad if you don't count all the annoying homeless people who give you hard time; but come the morning, just ten minutes before clocking out and riding high, looking forward to a hard earned day off, my supervisor counts my register and grimly reports that it's short five dollars. And, she adds, yesterday it was short fourteen dollars. Talk about taking all the air out of my little balloon. I honestly don't know how my register came up short. I try so hard to be exact. One more screw up like that and I'll get probated, and suffer further humiliation by having someone watch over me while I ring. I almost broke out in tears--almost. I refuse to cry in public.
But for an agonizingly long ten minutes I had to hold it all in and keep ringing up sales, like a good little store monkey. I didn't do a very good job at keeping my composure. Even if I didn't cry, my attitude was still kind of pissy. That's because the guy I was checking out was a right dickface idiot who couldn't tell his own ass from a hole in the ground.
I don't want to get into what happened there. What happened is what always happens with customers, because customers are all the same: spoiled, helpless little children with a self-entitltement complex--all because they're spending money on you, and have been brought up in that good ol' American aphorism 'The customer is always right.' I can't think of a more corruptible phrase. By the way customers act their cash couldn't have been holier if it had fallen out of the Virgin Mary's ginny. Okay, the whole of them aren't that bad. But they come pretty damn close.You can measure their egos in dollars and cents; no matter how much or how little they spend they're trading more than just currency--they're trading sacrifice of dignity and self respect. And boy, do I know the feeling every time I had to steal away into a bathroom stall and just grit my teeth. I know dollar is never just a dollar. Even when you have it right there in your hand, it doesn't seem to exist. At least, that's the way it is for poor fucks like me. Our money doesn't 'grow,' as in make a profit, and neither do we get to keep it for very long. Over time, a numbness sets in after seeing bank accounts of less then twenty dollars month after month. Every day you go to work it feels like you're doing time. For eight hours you're stuck there. You're not free to do what you want, to say what you want, or to be your own person, and the hours drag and drag with you doing the same old routine you did the night before: scan, ring, bag...scan, ring, bag...scan, ring, bag. Work feels like forever, but the money never stays. In my case, it goes straight to those things needed to keep me alive and sane, which is ironic since working so hard for it stresses my body and spirit.
It's just a job. It's just stupid job.
This is my mantra.
Actually, I feel a bit better now that I've written about it. Hopefully my next entry won't be such a downer.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Ugh! Working the Graveyard Tonight
It's past two in the afternoon, and I have to be at work in eight hours. I should be getting some sleep, but my head is pounding, not to mention the bright ass sun is shining all its glory onto my face. And it's hot as hell, too. Who can sleep in the heat, except lizards and scorpions? Mammals are not meant for this kind of thermal abuse. Shit! I have to go to sleep. My stomach hurts, the air is too dry, my skin itches, and there's too much noise going on outside. Why did I ever agree to do the graveyard shift? It sucks. Sure, I don't have to bother with all the annoying Daywalkers. Customer service just isn't my thing, and I can't bring myself to pretend to care about their stupid lives, as is guaranteed by my company's television commercials.
Isn't that how a store gets you to come in and buy their junk? By somehow getting you to feel as if you matter, that you are the center of the universe, and that all your little aches and pains and ouchies are major crises that we have sworn obligation to resolve? Puh-leeze. Go jump off a cliff. A couple of nights ago this dimwit comes rushing into the store, cradling her hand with the other, her index finger pointing up as if it were radioactive. She comes over to my counter all panicky demanding to know where the Neosporin was located. I tell it's downstairs and in what aisle to find it. Of course the idiot doesn't find it and I have to go escort her personally to the first aid aisle.
"What happened to your finger?" I asked, becasue from what I can tell, it looked perfectly fine.
The lady whimpers, "I burned it on a curling iron." She showed it to me, as if expecting me to kiss her boo-boo. I looked it over and immediately judged that 'burned' was a bit over the top. The tip of the finger was slightly red, nothing a steady stream of tepid water and a little patience couldn't cure, but it was far from bubbling and blistering like a couple of doozies I had experiened in my childhood. My mother didn't make a big deal of that, so I guess I picked up a tendency not to get overexcited about minor injories. Crybaby kept going on about it as if the damn thing had been cut off.
I pointed out the Neosporin to her without commenting on her finger. Crybaby looks at me and asks, I shit you not, "Will it take the 'ouchies' away?"
I was amazed. 'Ouchies?' Are you fucking kidding me?
"What are you? Five?"
She looked a little embarrassed after that, silently grabbed the Neosporin, and followed me back to the cash register. After the transaction, we exchanged goodbyes. Crybaby didn't look up once the whole time after that, bringing her head up again only when she was out the door. An obvious Daywalker. She had come rushing to the pharmacy in the middle of the night in her pajamas and fuzzy slippers for a slightly red fingertip. God. Grow a pair, you dingbat.
I hate Daywalkers.
Isn't that how a store gets you to come in and buy their junk? By somehow getting you to feel as if you matter, that you are the center of the universe, and that all your little aches and pains and ouchies are major crises that we have sworn obligation to resolve? Puh-leeze. Go jump off a cliff. A couple of nights ago this dimwit comes rushing into the store, cradling her hand with the other, her index finger pointing up as if it were radioactive. She comes over to my counter all panicky demanding to know where the Neosporin was located. I tell it's downstairs and in what aisle to find it. Of course the idiot doesn't find it and I have to go escort her personally to the first aid aisle.
"What happened to your finger?" I asked, becasue from what I can tell, it looked perfectly fine.
The lady whimpers, "I burned it on a curling iron." She showed it to me, as if expecting me to kiss her boo-boo. I looked it over and immediately judged that 'burned' was a bit over the top. The tip of the finger was slightly red, nothing a steady stream of tepid water and a little patience couldn't cure, but it was far from bubbling and blistering like a couple of doozies I had experiened in my childhood. My mother didn't make a big deal of that, so I guess I picked up a tendency not to get overexcited about minor injories. Crybaby kept going on about it as if the damn thing had been cut off.
I pointed out the Neosporin to her without commenting on her finger. Crybaby looks at me and asks, I shit you not, "Will it take the 'ouchies' away?"
I was amazed. 'Ouchies?' Are you fucking kidding me?
"What are you? Five?"
She looked a little embarrassed after that, silently grabbed the Neosporin, and followed me back to the cash register. After the transaction, we exchanged goodbyes. Crybaby didn't look up once the whole time after that, bringing her head up again only when she was out the door. An obvious Daywalker. She had come rushing to the pharmacy in the middle of the night in her pajamas and fuzzy slippers for a slightly red fingertip. God. Grow a pair, you dingbat.
I hate Daywalkers.
So, long time, no see
'What the hell am I doing?' is a question that runs through my mind daily. There are so many things in my life I want to improve, but I have such helter-skelter way of going about it. I jump from one routine, get bored with it, and move on to another, more exotic and fun one. Take this blog, for instance: I started this thing to get motivated about writing, and it's been months since I've been here. What have I been doing all this time. Writing, of course! Well, kinda. There have been other things on my mind lately, but the point remains writing has not been my first priority and it's damn well time it was. I'm sick of my lack of commitment and consistency. From now on I will breath, eat, and drink writing!
But there's one more thing: I have my health to think of too, and that always seems like a major project. I'm overweight and my blood pressure is way high. I'm supposed to take medication for it. I don't. That's bad, true, but I didn't have medical insurance for the longest time because I had been out of work. I got a job now, at the drug store. It sucks and it pays shit, but hey, I get medical coverage now. It seems like I'm working just so I can see a freakin' doctor; the money I make is pitiful, barely enough to pay the outrageous Santa Monica rents. Were it not for my boyfriend taking care of most of the bills, I would be stuck at my mother's place *shudder.*
In spite of it all my optimism remains steadfast. I just joined the YMCA, and I'm starting a new diet. This time I can't afford to fail. My health is at stake. Hopefully, the a new diet, stuffed with brain helpful goodies, will help me think better as I beef up on my writing skills. Wish me luck.
But there's one more thing: I have my health to think of too, and that always seems like a major project. I'm overweight and my blood pressure is way high. I'm supposed to take medication for it. I don't. That's bad, true, but I didn't have medical insurance for the longest time because I had been out of work. I got a job now, at the drug store. It sucks and it pays shit, but hey, I get medical coverage now. It seems like I'm working just so I can see a freakin' doctor; the money I make is pitiful, barely enough to pay the outrageous Santa Monica rents. Were it not for my boyfriend taking care of most of the bills, I would be stuck at my mother's place *shudder.*
In spite of it all my optimism remains steadfast. I just joined the YMCA, and I'm starting a new diet. This time I can't afford to fail. My health is at stake. Hopefully, the a new diet, stuffed with brain helpful goodies, will help me think better as I beef up on my writing skills. Wish me luck.
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