No, Not Like Big Bang Theory

Imagine if Dawn of the Dead had a love-child with Revenge of the Nerds. That would kind of be like what just walked in to the theatre. All was quiet between shows when suddenly I was surrounded. Honestly, I didn't think that nerds like this existed any more. It's kind of like spotting a rare species of butterfly.

If that rare species happened to have a raging acne problem, BO and no social skills.

I feel like I should be documenting this for science. I wish there was a way I could film them without their knowing. Or even snap a few pictures. But, like a timid heard of deer, I'm afraid they would notice and scatter. After all, every nerd worth his weight can spot a cell phone camera from 100 paces.

First I might need to come up with a good name for a group of nerds. Swarm? Heard? Gaggle?

After years of working here I've learned to spot people who are here for the show and who's just here for the bathroom. These guys threw me a bit. They came in all at once and stood there, just inside the security gates, completely ignoring me. They weren't moving for the desk and no one was running for the can. They just stood there, nerding up the place.

Amongst them were some of the most classic examples of nerdery. It was like they pulled their looks from the Encyclopedia Nerdannica.

They had the classic "Acne Nerd" with his black T, fleece coat and ill fitting jeans. His conversation was mostly filled with criticisms of a french film he'd seen recently (actually, he complained mainly about its title) and talked rather too loudly about being a computer science student and not having a student card because it would mean leaving his house. No, I am not making that up.

Next was the "Awkward Nerd". You know the guy. The one who has always and will always be complete oblivious to fashion trends, hairstyles beyond whatever is cheapest at Supercuts and still wearing the same style of glasses he's had since he was eight. This one was decked out in his finest tan slacks (rolled up to MAKE them flood pants), slip on brown loafers and a red shirt that fitted like he bought it thirty pounds ago. It went well with his attempt at sideburns.

Joining them was "Sweatpants Nerd". Like so many of this breed, he came in the shape of an eerily pale 20-something. With his Reboks that have never run and his matching t-shirt/sweatpant combo and his windbreaker straight out of the 1995 Sears Catalogue, he's ready for a night on the town. If you're imagining him with a nasally voice and an inability to get through a complete sentence without pausing for an awkward gasp of breath, you're spot on.

Their ranks were filled out with "Tubby Nerd" with his "I PWN N00BS" physique and the cargo shorts/sandals combo in weather that any reasonably intelligent person would get out the long pants for (along with the required bunnyhug), "Skinny Nerd" looking a bit too much like a badly designed bird with glasses and obligatory obscure reference t-shirt, "Socially Handicapped Nerd" who seems to go out of his way to be as obnoxious as humanly possible, perpetually standing where ever he shouldn't be, saying whatever he shouldn't say and just generally being someone you'd chew your left arm off to avoid and finally "YouTube Commenter Nerd" otherwise known as "FIRST!" on every message board ever created online, perpetually pointing out "obvious photoshop" and talking like an expert on every subject known to man because he's read it all on Wikipedia.

They're milling slowly started to move toward the desk. I hoped they would buy their tickets and sit out on the bench until the first show was over, but of course, they didn't. They stopped directly in front of my desk and blocked the entrance to the theatre and the mens room all in one amazing move. Slowly they began to drift, still chatting until they were pacing around my desk in circles. It was like some kind of horrible nerdy-go-round.

I felt like I was being hunted. It reminded me of the scene with the raptors in Jurassic Park.

They all arrive almost 30 minutes before the movie started and this all went on for 20 minutes before they finally bought any tickets.

Meanwhile, the projectionist just laughed.

"You seem to attract them."

I guess we all have our cross to bear.

Oh, Fuck Off

So now that I've found out that my job will likely not be continuing past the end of July, knowing that I have to move at the end of July, having my car start falling in to pieces, being incredibly sick, watching my hopes and dreams for the future slip out of my grasp and in to the flaming pits in the deepest, darkest bowels of hell, it's fair to say the last few months have been shit. Mostly full of panic attacks, sleepless nights, not a lot of eating and general grumpiness.

I keep hoping that it will get better, but apparently it's just a whole lot of fun to kick me when I'm down. This week is just another good example.

Monday was payday. Tuesday I was denied a purchase of under $13. 

Hmmm... something's wrong.

Wednesday I called the library to ask where my money is. They tell me I didn't get paid because they didn't get a time card. Which is odd as my supervisor hands those in. They tell me they emailed me, I tell them the library has repeatedly denied my request for a work computer and I work two nights a week. I don't get emails.

I ask if I hand in a time card now, will I get paid?

Yes.

On the next payday.

In two weeks.

Fuck me.

So I ditch my friends, drive all the way downtown, fill out a time card, get yelled at by the payroll chick, treated like shit and told that I'm just SOL. All of which, I'm sure, will come back to bite me in the ass. 

Oh and I'm still FUCKING BROKE.

So I call my mom, who decides to start a fight with me on the phone after I tell her about all of this. Good timing.

I hang up on her and, using my very best judgement (that only comes with insane levels of frustration mixed with an explosive temper), I start punching things. Mostly my steering wheel.

My last punch lands off and I catch my last knuckle. Which pops. 

It's still bruised and sore. I'm not completely sure I didn't break something.

Yes, this is how I deal with my anger. I can punch things or I can punch you. Deal with it.

Between Thursday and Friday the noise my car is making has gotten a whole fuck of a lot worse. I'm not convinced that my muffler is fucked. Which is just perfect as, you may have forgotten, I'M FUCKING BROKE BECAUSE I DIDN'T GET PAID!

And then today... Today I went for breakfast at my parents. I spent an hour there and left because my mother worked me in to a panic attack that consumed most of my day. She did call later tho... to ask what we're doing for father's day tomorrow. You know, because at that moment, that was all I was thinking about.

She did manage to work and "are you okay?" in at the end.

No, no I'm not. No you can't help. Please go away.

Then I came in to work. For some reason, the theatre coordinator thought it would be a really good idea to put two obscenely long movies on back to back, so I work until 11.30pm. When I go to do cash out, the numbers look a little odd but I don't think much of it.

When I pull the takings and count the float, I'm out.

$150.

That's. Not. Possible.

Seems the cashier last night fucked up and threw the numbers out. So I'm stuck with a fucking mess. Which is perfect after I just had a fight with payroll about my money and that looks bad. Really. Fucking. Bad.

Man, I love having a breakdown at work. Really. Too much fun.

So I don't know about you guys, but me? I'm fucking finished. I don't want to play any more. Leave me the fuck alone. I'm not even in the fucking mood to kid about it. 

So any bullshit you may have had for me, you can shove right up your ass. 

No More Mr. Balls

When you work with the public, especially when you work somewhere like the public library, you tend to meet a lot of weird people. People who are just kind of unforgettable in their dysfunction. For the most part, they're people who aren't really hurting anyone, but they make things just a little more interesting.
At the library (and I'm assuming in most places) our regulars get nicknames. It's something we do so we have something to call them when we talk amongst ourselves. Most are completely self-explanatory. There's "Pee Guy" who smells more like pee than pee does. "Bling Bling" with his gold necklaces to rival Mr. T. "Mr. Beefeater Gin" who used to sit in the back and pretend no one knew he was getting shitfaced. "Paper Friend" who would hoard all the newspapers. "Last Minute Larry" who always shows up ten minutes before we close and takes an armful of news papers to the other end of the building (oh yeah, that's not annoying...). And of course, "Mr. Balls".
Mr. Balls used to be known as "Stink and Stare". You'll never guess why. But that all changed one day when a co-worker decided that "Mr. Balls" was more fitting. This was all because of the duffel bag he toted with him everywhere. It was full of balls. All different kinds. He had everything from a small bowling ball to a squeezy stress ball.
He would go upstairs to the news papers, gab a handful, find a table and then it would begin. He's start by taking apart the newspapers. I don't believe I ever saw him read a word, but they were all pulled apart by the end of the day. And then he go for his bag.
Most of the time he'd take out a ball and rub it on his face. Honest, I can't make stuff like that up. Or he'd sit with the bowling ball pressed to his face. One I watched him squeeze the stress ball around in the air before sniffing wildly like it had released some beautiful perfume. It was his thing.
Although the thing I remember the best is the night a friend of mine and I were headed back downstairs and he was walking ahead of us. As he waddled along (he really did waddle) a bar of soap fell out of his pant leg. He didn't even pause. Just carried on with the used pant-soap laying on the floor behind him. I will always choose to believe he had a hole in his pocket.
Today I saw his obit in the paper. It was an odd feeling actually. To see his real name written out. A bit like in Fight Club when they're all chanting "His name is Robert Paulson" because in death, they've decided, you get your name back. It was weird too because, for as much as we never really knew the guy, we did know him in a way and he was just part of daily life here. One of those constants you get used to and then just come to expect.
Honestly, a lot of our patrons are elderly and many of them in not such great shape. A hard life tends to do that to people. So it's not something you don't expect or something that's never happened before. It's just odd.
Anyway, good-bye Mr. Balls. I hope where ever you are, it's like a giant McDonald's ball room.

Are You There God? It's Me, Gwenhwyfar...

And I know you're mocking me, you bastard.
I woke up this morning a full hour before my alarm with a migraine that has now dug itself completely in to the left side of my head. Despite the massive dose of painkillers I've taken it doesn't look like it's going to let up any time soon.
Then I came to work, being the wonderful employee I am, head still pounding. Luckily, I have a fairly easy job. It's normally pretty quiet and I thought nursing my head wouldn't be too hard.
Not so much.
It seems there's a leak in the plumbing, so the guys are here working on it. With power tools. Really. Loud. Power tools. And let me tell you, that is doing wonders for my head.
Finally, just because I know the Gods can't let a good thing go, they've got the radio going and once again I am listening to Pink screeching her way through "sober". It might be tollerable if it weren't the fifth time I've heard it today. But the radio stations all seem to be hell bent on torturing me with the same goddamned song every fifteen minutes.
Fuck.

Chicken Little Meets The Exorcist

I got myself another job. For now. I'm not exactly sure about the whole thing and it's only temporary until the end of March. But what the hell, right? Could be worse and they pay me money, which is nice.
Anyway, we've got this training day/potluck/gift exchange tomorrow. I'm not really sure how to feel about that since I've only been here three days. I mean, I've only just managed to learn four names (that leaves me about thirty short) and I'm already getting hit up for presents and food. I suppose I be getting some back, but I'm broke and lazy. You know how it is.
So I spent a while looking around for something to make for tomorrow. I could certainly just buy something but I don't want to look like some lame-ass who can't cook to save her life. Especially because I CAN cook and quite well too. The trick is to find something that is tasty, cheep to make and easy enough that I won't be up until four in the fucking moring making it and cursing whoever devised the evil potluck bullshit in the first place.
I think I've hit on a solution. One I'd never really thought of before. But lately I've been on this nostalgia kick. I really love vintage stuff, especially old cookbooks. Even more so the ones that contain recipes and pictures that are just a little terrifying. But that's me. I figure, tho, it's probably best not to show up with something too scary. So I compromised.
Deviled Eggs.
Oddly enough, I've never made them before. Ever. I honestly didn't even know what was in them. Eggs, obviously but beyond that it was a mystery. And after looking up the recipe I realized how simple they are and (best of all) I have everything I need to make them at home.
That being said, in about half an hour, when I get home, I will be starting on my very first journey to deviled-eggdom. If you don't hear from me soon, something when horribly, horribly wrong. And just in case, I'd just like to say I'm sorry I did that thing to you that time, it really was a stupid thing to do and please don't put my dead body in any lewd positions and take pictures.

I Should Have Slept In

Sacked
Pink Slipped
Made Redundant
Walking Spanish
Bum's Rush
Laid Off
Given The Chop
Dismissed
Axed
Shit Canned
Dumped
Let Go
Terminated
Got The Boot
Discharged
Fired

Oh Yeah, We're Mature

I seem to be getting along alright with everyone at the new job but I had started to think that the one chick, let's call her "Sara", didn't care for me so much. It seems that we really just had to break the ice. Now that the ice has been broken we can get on with childish giggling at, well, everything. For instance...
The day before yesterday we were packing up returns for the delivery guy to pick up and Sara walked over and stood beside me. When she just stood there and didn't say anything I looked over at her and waited.
She looked at me kinda funny and said "How much do you think your box weighs?" Then she snorted, trying to stifle a laugh.
"I really don't know." I said. "It's not something I've ever really thought about. How much do you think my box weighs?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe we should ask the delivery guy how much he thinks your box weighs."
It was at this point we both cracked up.
And then today...
We were checking in new stock and pricing it. Some isn't for sale until the 11th so we were setting it aside. I had a stack of CDs ready to go and Sara walked over and grabbed them.
"I'm just going to shove these in my box."
I almost fell over I was laughing so hard. I also had another stack of CDs ready.
"Do you want to shove these in your box too?"
"Yeah, I think I can fit them in my box."
"You certainly have got a lot in your box."
"I think I can fit a lot more in my box if I shift some things around."
"Well I've got this Willie Nelson CD."
"Just one Willie?"
"Do you think you can fit more than one Willie in your box?"
"Oh yeah, I think I could fit a bunch of Willies in my box. I want to set a world record for stuffing things in my box."
"You know, while you've been busy filling up your box, I've got my box almost empty."
"Really?"
"Oh yeah, my box is clean as a whistle."
"I hope to have my box cleaned out by Tuesday."
And once again we both cracked up.
It's good to be such mature, responsible adults.

Someone Needs To Check Your Dosage

Two weeks ago I started a new job at one of the local CD/DVD stores, which is super cool and all. But this store happens to be located right by a Tim Horton's (Timmy's, Tim's, Timmy Ho's, The Horton, whatever you want to call it - only real Canadians get it) and mostly because of the nearness of it I've been there nearly every day I've worked my new job.
Now as much as I hate to admit it because I know how fucking lazy it is, I normally just drive over (it's normally fast and a fuck of a lot easier when I'm also picking up orders for two or three other people - besides, fuck you). There seems to be a few people who work the Tim's drive-thru regularly so I've gotten to recognize them. One in particular is Jade.
Oh, Jade...
It all began last week when I pulled up to the drive-thru, ordered my carrot-wheat muffin and extra large steeped tea with three sugars and handed Jade my debit card (I don't often carry real money, so sue me) and she went all Leeroy Jenkins on me. "DEBIIIIIIIIIIT!?" She actually shouted it out the window. This was even more amusing because Jade happens to be a rather petit asian woman. I seriously though my eye balls were going to pop right out of my head from stifling my laugh. It was just so fucking insane and hilarious. But I figured she was just in a weird mood.
Then the yesterday one of the girls from work (let's call her "Amber") and I decided we needed to make a run to Tim's. So we hopped in the car (see, she's lazy too) and headed over. When we got to the order box, some crusty Tim's bitch who informed me that their debit was down so there was nothing they could do for me. So me and Amber drove to shoppers and I got some cash, then back to Tim's.
This time around there's not a word about the debit being down, which is fucking stupid as we'd only been gone five minutes. But whatever, I was hungry, in need of tea and Amber was getting antsy. So I start my order...
"I'd like an extra large steeped tea and two hashbrowns..." but Tim's bitch cuts me off.
"We stopped serving breakfast."
Oh my, you're right. It's two minutes after 11 because I had to drive to shoppers to get cash because your debit was down. Amber scrambles to pick something else.
"Okay, then give me a raspberry doughnut..." Tim's bitch cuts me off again.
"Raspberry filled?"
"Yes please."
"That's everything?"
"No, I also need a chocolate milk and a carrot muffin."
She barks the price at me and I drive up to the window while Amber and I laugh about how crusty the help is getting. Jade is waiting. "We're out of carrot muffins, would you like something else?"
Damnit. I wanted a muffin. But I'm too hungry to be pouty. "Um, I guess I'll have a whole wheat bagel then."
Amber suddenly has an attack of buyer's remorse and changes her mind about the doughnut. "And can I switch the doughnut to a chocolate chip muffin?"
Jade goes to get the new order. Amber and I chat and joke around while she's gone. She comes back to tell us they're out of chocolate chip muffins. By this time the whole trip has become such an ordeal that we're cracking up.
"Can I just have a raspberry muffin then?"
"That's your final order then? No more changes?" Jade asks, getting huffy.
"Yeah, that's perfect."
Jade comes back with the muffin, chocolate milk and my tea.
"Can I have three sugars and an extra cup please?"
The window slams shut and Amber makes some comment that has us both laughing (it was in regards to being honked at in a drive-thru). When Jade pokes her head out again we're still laughing.
"You guys are having enough fun then!" She snaps and THROWS two packets of sugar at me.
I kind of sat there, stunned and then Amber speaks up "Did she just throw sugar at you?" Which just makes me laugh.
"I still need my bagel!" I call to Jade. Finally she comes back and shoves the bagel in to my hands.
We drove off and as we're pulling up at work Amber looks at me and says "You asked for three sugars, didn't you? And did she give you a stir stick?"
"I have a sugar packet in my purse and there is no way in hell I'm going back to ask for a stir stick. I'm pretty sure she'd kill me."

Oh For The Love Of...

Can I just ask you all a question? Because I'm dying to know. What the fuck is wrong with some people? And why do those people always come to the library? I'm really at a loss.
If you hadn't guessed already, I had to work tonight. As most Thursday nights go, it was slow and coupled with the fact that we've shown both the movies before, it was fucking painful. So I wasted as much time as I could and then ended up sitting in on the second movie. (I hadn't seen it and it was actually well worth it.)
After the show I checked the theatre, closed up and got ready to head home. But before I left I stopped in the washroom. Now the staff washroom is on the other side of two locked doors and, frankly, not worth the hassle if you're in a rush to go home so I just used the public washroom.
When will I ever learn?
Now I'm sure your choice of bathroom stall says lots about you, but for me I almost always go for the first stall. I don't know why. Laziness probably. Why walk to the other end if I don't have to? So that's the one I went to this evening. I pushed open the stall door and stopped. Like screeching halt, red-alert, iceberg dead ahead, kind of stopped.
(This is the part where you can imagine the Psycho shower stabbing-type music.)
Smeared across the inside of the open lid and mushed between the lid and the seat was a hefty piece of shit. I'm not talking about a little tiny streak, I'm talking a mashed up log.
At this point I ran to another stall. After which I washed my hands. Thoroughly. Then told the projectionist about the problem. I mean, wouldn't you? And he, of course, told maintenance. The maintenance guy came to take a look.
His description?
"Looks like peanut butter!"
Oh yeah, all class.
He also decided to leave it for the morning guy.
Me? I left. Quickly. That is sooooooo not my job.

P.S. Fuck You

I quit my job today. Well, one of them. I couldn't be happier.
Seems that it's not all that hard to push me past my breaking point. Especially for the pay I was getting there. All you really have to do is staff the building almost entirely with idiots and incompetents, get the day staff to do the cleaner's job, cancel shifts without informing people, treat the staff like shit, hire three extra people and cut everyone down to one shift a week.
I left a very short, polite note and my keys on the desk and I plan on never setting foot in that shit hole again. I didn't bother leaving an explanation either because I didn't have the time for that long of a list. So to make up for it, here is a resignation letter worth leaving.

M_____,
I've decided to quit this bullshit job because your incompetence gives me a migraine, L___ is a useless bitch and this place is going right down the shitter. That is of course on top of the fact that the number of disgusting jobs and mind-numbing stupidity I'm asked to deal with seems to be increasing every time I walk through the door.
To be fair tho, can you really blame me? You were the one, after all, who cut me back to ONE three hour shift A WEEK. I mean, I understand. You did hire all those extra people as we were moving in to our slow season. (Really clever move, by the way.) But you can't blame me for being an annoyed little peon any more than I can blame you for being completely unfettered by managerial sense, right?
Now because I am a fucking sweetheart and because I know of at least one person who was ready to follow me on my way out (and I can guess at several more who wouldn't need much convincing), I'd like to offer you some advice, a few suggestions, that sort of thing. Mmm-kay?
First, even during the "busy" season, the place runs find with three people. So kicking off the slow season by hiring three more people makes absolutely no sense. This is one of those things that means a MAJOR FUCKING CUTBACK IN HOURS. Somehow that always seems to make people just a teensy bit upset.
Second, giving extra shifts to the person who has told you that they want less and less work to the person who has told you they need as much as they can get - not a good plan. Generally people say what they mean when it comes to this sort of thing. Trust me on this one, you're pissing both of those people off. A lot.
Third, spend a little time learning the difference between day staff and the night cleaners. Then check what each are doing. If the cleaners aren't cleaning and the day staff is, you have a problem. A big one. Fix it.
Fourth, the recycling depot sorts everything for you. There is NO reason why the day staff should be asked to sort sticky, putrid, rotting recycling. Especially if you're not even going to have the decency to get some rubber gloves.
Fifth, training, training, training. I cannot stress this enough. If something changes or a new procedure is introduced you actually have to train the staff to handle it. Written instructions, by the way, are fine and dandy ONLY when they are written in a way that can be understood. You know, by people who speak english and not whatever jibberish it is that you seem to be writing them in. Maybe from now on you could have them proof read by several people to make sure that they are easily understood. Hmmm?
Sixth, insisting that the staff member closing up late at night (that would be ONE person) go around alone to make sure (and I quote) "no crazy people got in and are hiding somewhere" in a dangerous area of town is probably not so smart. Oh and when someone asks what to do in the event that a crazy person is actually hiding in the basement somewhere, it's probably best not to answer "Um... run." Yeah. Just a thought. Also, just a heads up, when people feel a job is unsafe they'll probably just skip it.
Seventh, GET A FUCKING CASH REGISTER. I can't even imagine how long people were fucking up the cash-out before I came along and pointed it out. Do you have any fucking clue how much easier it would be if you had a fucking cash register? I mean, come on! This is a basic item that businesses should have. Fork out the hundred odd dollars to get one. I shouldn't even have to say this one, fuck. (Also, you'll note that the instructions I wrote are actually understandable, easy to follow and only one page long. Amazing, I know. What can I say? It's a skill.)
You know what, I could probably go on forever. There are just too many things. But these ones are the biggest problems I can think of right now. The more I think about them, the more my head hurts. So let me just say take this as a starting point and work from there. If you need any help with fixing the rest of the bullshit, don't call. I don't want to hear about it. Figure it out, you fucktard. That's your job. (Actually, please expand that to "don't call me ever, for any reason. From hear on out I'm going to choose to believe you're dead.")

Always,

-Gwenhwyfar

Like Some Sick Twisted Joke

I work in a library. You know those places, filled with literature, promoting literacy, really into learning, that sort of thing. A place where proper english rules with an iron fist, grammar is key and spelling, a god. At least that's what I, along with many others I would imagine, have been led to believe. I tell you friends, it is a fucking lie.
Tonight I almost wept went I saw the new poster the library made up to promote a reading program for young adults. It says (and by God I wish I was making this up) "Read Ny Gud Bux L8ly?"**
How is it possible that this got approved!? HOW!? I know I've gone off on rants about that kind of bullshit internet texting lingo before but this... THIS I can't find words for. It's just so wrong on so many levels.
First, as previously stated, the library is all about promoting LITERACY. So why the fuck are they suddenly encouraging this borderline illiterate asinine shit? The library is an institution that is meant to be looked up to. It's a place where people come to seek information. It's not a place that should be talking down to children or dumbing things down for people. (The terrifying thought is that one day these half-wit little bastards will be not only caring for you in your old age, but running the fucking country. I expect any day now we'll start passing laws that end in "Srsly not want".)
Second, this is about equal to your mother suddenly wearing daisy dukes, dying her hair purple and asking you if you want to go to the "rock and roll concert". You shuddered, right? Yeah, me too. Because it's gross and sad and the complete opposite of cool. The library is not the nerdy girl in the movies who takes off her glasses and lets down her hair to reveal that she's actually wicked hot. No. The library is the nerdy girl you went to school with, the one with the massive overbite, dental appliance, lazy eye, an almost psychotic love of algebra and who always smelt of cheese. No amount of "hip talk" is going to change that.
Third, since when did we start encouraging bad habits in youth? Are we all going to suddenly start chewing with our mouths open, picking our noses, give up on washing our hands, etc. because the kids are doing it so it must be cool? Because, silly me, I always thought that as adults we were meant to stand as a good example and to lead the way, not follow the example of every thirteen year old with the IQ of a hamster. (Although this would explain how movies like Norbit ever got the green light.)
And fourth, when the fuck did we become so fucking lazy that we can't be bothered to write a whole fucking word? WHEN!? When did people start getting half way through a word and saying "Fuck me, this writing shit takes too much effort."? I mean, for fuck sakes, you're not even WRITING with a pen and paper. You're typing! Is hitting a few extra keys really that taxing? If we've really gotten to the point as a species where, from here on out, people are actually too lazy to type I think we ought to just starting killing ourselves en masse. Because we're only about three generations away from becoming completely immobile mountains of Jabba the Hutt-esque lard who do nothing but eat processed cheese product and watch reality TV.
Sweet titty fucking Christ.
Taking it too far? Maybe. Getting worked up over nothing? Possibly. A little insane? A given.
It's my blog, fuck you.



**Blogger spellcheck almost had an aneurism over that.

How The Hell Did That Happen?

I forgot I had to work tonight. The most likely reason for this is because I'm fairly sure that the guy I traded with was using some kind of evil voodoo to get me to do this. Because now I'm working all four nights in the theatre. This, this is just not good.
I'm having one of those days (and I can see this lasting all weekend) where I REALLY don't want to be here. I'm actually beyond antsy. I kind of want to scream. I just need to leave and I can't.
Normally I don't mind work, in fact, I kind of like it. But when I know that I could be out doing other shit if I wasn't stuck here, this place is like a fucking prison.
Fuck I hate being a responsible adult.

One Down, Two To Go

I was up at six this morning. As in 6am. That was bad enough but on top of the fact that I didn't crawl in to bed until 3am made the whole thing even less fun. Now I hear you asking, "But why, oh lovely, prefect, wonderful Gwenhwyfar? Why would you torture yourself like that?"
The answer is simple. I've lost my damned mind.
A few months ago, after talking with a few people, I thought it would be a great idea to get myself a table at the local farmer's market. Just selling stuff I was making anyway. Sounds simple, right? And it really is a pretty cheap gig.
So when they called to tell me that my application for a table had gone through I got to work. I worked my ass off for weeks. I got lots done.
The first day was bad. Really bad. It was windy (and if you live on the prairie you know what I mean) and it rained. All. Fucking. Morning. I came home soaked and frozen. The second day wasn't so bad. But business was slow because it was also the weekend of an annual arts festival in the city.
Today however, today was great. I was busy, I sold lots, I made money. Good stuff all around. Oh and no wind or rain.
So where's the part where I lose my mind? Well, while this sounds all well and good, you must keep in mind that Farmer's Market is not my only job. I have two other jobs. And just by fluke, I am working all three today.
I was up at 6am (with three hours sleep) and the market at 8am, done there at 1pm (almost 1.30pm actually) so I could run to the theatre where I will work until 5pm and then run to the library for 6pm. I will get home tonight sometime around 12am.
That is the part where I loose it.
I need a nap.

Will Work For Food

Actually that's not true. I'll work for money and then I will buy food with that money, pay bills and buy silly things I don't really need, etc. But the the main part of that is working for money. Which I don't seem to be doing much of lately. Which is making me very, very grumpy. I have two jobs and neither is giving me enough hours.
The solution seems simple enough, but the thought of looking for a new job is as frustrating as the problems I have now. Especially when, despite the fact that there are a lot of places looking for employees, 99% of those jobs are part-time minimum wage high school jobs. No one with half a brain would leave a union job with benefits for a cashier gig at the fucking Home Depot.
So the search begins for a decent job that pays and gives enough hours to make everything worth while. Preferably a job that's getting me a little closer to the career I trained for. And definitely something that doesn't make "jumping in front of a speeding bus" look like a good plan.
This could be harder than it looks.

That About Sums It Up

I could tell you that I spent the morning answering stupid question, but this kind of sums up everything perfectly. This woman called to ask where we're located. I gave her the address and the intersection. She still wasn't sure.
"Do you know where (Auto Parts Store) is?"
"Yes."
"Well we're right behind them. So if you're headed north towards them you just need to turn left on 4th Ave."
"But... but... I'm headed south! What do I do if I'm going south!?"
"..." Oh yeah, she's serious. "You turn right on 4th."
And there's still another day of this shit.
*sigh*

A Girl Can Dream, Can't She?

I have an alarm program on my computer that I use when I have to get up earlier then I would like. I had to be up at 8am to get ready for work, so I set it last night. When the alarm goes off it turns on my computer and starts up iTunes. It's really a glorified clock radio alarm, but I like it a lot better then the mind meltingly awful sound my alarm clock makes.
I have to go to work because the dancers are still there. I don't want to go. They're a bunch of harpy shrews and they make me wish I was deaf and blind. So what tune did I wake up to this morning? (I almost always have iTunes on shuffle.) Johnny Cash singing "The Man Comes Around".
I could help but think "if only". That would make for a really awesome day. Just to watch the Four Horsemen ride through a building full of these freaks. Somehow, I think they'd probably like them as much as I do. I'd even get them some coffee. Maybe a muffin or something. I mean, really, I don't imagine they have much time to stop and snack and everyone needs to eat. You can't go around Apocolypsing it up on an empty stomach. You'll just end up making yourself ill.
I suspect that it will be these thoughts that will get me through today. I feel all warm and squishy inside.

S.O.S.

Someone, please, I'm surrounded by dancers... send help. Send help now. I'm begging you.

Not Want!

It's 7.30 in the morning. Wait. Let me repeat that. 7.30 IN THE MORNING! And I'm at work, surrounded by dancers and their parents and one woman whom I've heard ask god to bless no less than six people since she walked through the door. (Let's hope God is as all loving and forgiving as she seems to think he is, because if she were asking me for that much it'd be wearing pretty fucking thin by now.) I have a feeling today is not going to be a good day. (To be fair, not many days that start at 6.20 am are good days.)
90% of the people I can see at the moment look like they just dropped out of a stripper competition. There is so much hairspray in the air, if anyone tries to light a cigarette, we're all going up in the biggest fireball since the Hindenburg. And most of these kids can't be older that ten. It's actually kind of sad. (Even more sad are the mothers who look that way. In attendance are at least five graduates of the Tammy Fay School of Aesthetics.)
In all honesty it's not nearly so bad as beauty competitions, but you can see it on so many of the parents faces. "You're living my dream, so don't you dare fuck it up." Like every competition like this though, it's all big smiles and look-how-perfect-we-are people. The kind that if you watch and listen long enough, you'll hear the most horrible things said through a smile. It's something I remember painfully well from when I was their age. As much as I hate to admit it, I used to be one of those kids. (Though I was never really one of them, I never did buy in to the whole "girly thing" and they knew it as well as I did.)
So it should be eight fun filled hours of estrogen, nerves, insanity, pressure, judgement and bad music. If you have any mercy you'll come and put me out of my misery. Or at least come and keep me company.


*Update*
In less than an hour I've pointed to the clearly marked admissions desk about three hundred times, dealt with one stolen purse, a kitchen crew that doesn't understand that plugging every coffee maker in to one outlet blows the breaker and complains from people who live in the neighbourhood about people parking in front of their houses. Oh yeah, this is great.

FYI

At the end of the night, when the theatre is closing down, please leave.
You want to stand and talk with your friends? Great. Do it outside. Meet at the bar down the street. Go to someone's house. Just get the fuck out. It's 11pm and some of us have been at work all fucking day and we'd like to go home.
I shouldn't have to herd you toward the door, especially after standing there for ten minutes with my coat on. What the fuck did you think I was getting at when I put it on? It certainly wasn't because I was cold.
Oh and by the way, if I herd you toward the door at the bottom of the stairs I want you to keep moving. Don't stop and chat some more on the stairs or at the top of the stairs. I want you out. All the way out. This should be this difficult. Just fuck off already.

Hitler-esque

I knew it had to happen some day, I just wasn't expecting that day to get here so quickly. I've finally been compared to Hitler.
I know what you're thinking, did I go oppressing an entire people again? Was I staging book burnings? Or giant rallies where everyone hails me and all of my soldiers do that goose stepping thing? And I have to answer you no. As much fun as some of that sounds. I just haven't had that kind of time lately.
No, friends, it was because I eat fish.
I was discussing food with Jarred, the other person running the theatre, (between the two of us I amazed we haven't burned to building down yet) and my not eating meat came up. I mentioned that I eat fish and Jarred laughed.
"You can't call yourself a vegetarian if you eat fish."
I explain there are a lot of kinds of vegetarians, including those who still eat chicken. They only cut the red meat (which we took a few minutes to make fun of). But around here it's just so much easier to say "vegetarian" than to try and explain all this to some of the meat lovin', commie hatin', rednecks who populate our fair province. They barely understand that, I think trying to reason with them any more than that would cause wide spread panic and rioting.
"So why don't you eat meat?" He asks.
"I don't feel good about it." It's the simplest answer. "I like to feel good about what I'm eating. Meat doesn't make me feel good. So I don't eat it."
"But you eat fish?"
"Yeah."
"So you don't feel bad about eating fish?"
"Not really."
He laughs. "So, like Hitler with the Jews? He didn't feel bad about killing them either."
How can I argue with logic like that?
"Yes, Jarred. I'm like Hitler. I'm the Hitler of fish." (At this point I take great pride in my restrain to make a comment about ovens.)
So yes, I am the Hitler of fish. Are you all happy now?
*sigh* I'm going to eat some tuna now.