ruminations
May. 3rd, 2005 12:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7I am wearing those undersized pants I mentioned a while back to prove to myself that I'm not fat. They're low-waisted bellbottoms, which is the worst possible style for me-- hip-huggers look bad when you have (to put it charitably) Marilyn Monroe hips, which are decidedly neither low nor bony and are not pleased by being interrupted by a low waistline. But I am stubborn, and not fat, and so I am wearing them and they're oddly comfortable.
I'm listening to bad pop-punk and feeling reminiscent for my college days, with inane pre-pop pop-punk-fuled road trips. (Rancid's ...and out come the wolves remains like the best road trip album ever, and i refuse to throw out the tape even though I never listen to tapes in the car anymore because, well, I take the bus.) But is it just me, or do they still play the same stuff on the radio that they did when I stopped listening in high school? I'm serious-- we had the radio on all the time at bartender school and I could sing along to every song on the "modern rock" station despite the fact that the last time I had any exposure to pop music was about 1996?
I'm eating a salad stolen from work. I got a chicken caesar salad and grabbed two caesar salad dressing packets. But the two packets are no nowhere to be found. So it's now a chicken and... wasabi ginger marinade I found in the fridge... salad. With croutons and parmesan cheese. Meh, I ain't complaining. It's... tangy.
Work last night was supremely pointless. I made under $20, and stood around a lot. They had three of us to man All-Stars, and there were no customers in it. So Judy told me about how her dog just got hit by a car... (Oh my GOD, I almost cried. She was, like, totally deadpan. "So I looked out and I saw the white in the road and I knew it was Bo. The car never even stopped. There weren't even any skid marks. Every one of her ribs was broken, and her skull too, and her leg was almost torn off." In a tone of voice like she was talking about the weather. And I'm sniffling and like, "Oh God, Judy," and can't even look at her or I'll cry), and Allison stood around feeling guilty that both Judy and I wanted her to sub for our shifts on Friday the 20th.
Oh yes-- that's the cool thing I found out-- there's absolutely no way I can get Friday the 20th off. So I'm going to call in sick that day. I'm not missing Dave's fucking graduation so I can sit in the fucking Club, and I'm going to tell the Club ladies so they have fair warning, because they're not going to be able to find a sub for my shift. (If they could, I would've done so already.) Though it strikes me that they should just put a cashier in there all the time, because it's cashier work that needs done, mostly-- doing dishes, manning the register, making change, and pouring pop. Cashiers make a higher base wage and don't make their living from tips. They'd be psyched about the $5 they'd make in tips in there, because they're already making like $8 an hour. (Union yes, folks.)
And then one of the supervisor/trainers (Micheal, and yes that's how he spells it) came by and was like, "Hey, meet Jessica. She's the new bartender." We all exchange glances. New bartender? And we've already got so many workers they're cutting my hours? And Allison wants more hours and isn't getting them? "Who's getting fired, Micheal?" Micheal shrugs. "I dunno." The new bartender looks nervous.
So we passed the rest of the boring long evening speculating on who's going. "They've been after HGLF for months," Allison said.
"Yes," I answered, "and nothing's come of it. Last week they were Totally Going To Fire [brunette girl] and what happened? She's got more hours. Sure. Not to mention that they've been after Crazy Lady for 7 years."
"They should be," Allison said. "She steals."
"They've fired her twice," I said. "They can't make it stick. So we know it's not her that's going; her job's safer than any of ours and wouldn't we all like to know why."
Today I've done laundry and am attempting to puzzle through the labyrinthine unfoldings of the First Age crap that keeps unravelling all over my brain. I just wanted hawt Elves to kiss, but now it's becoming apparent to me that despite reading the Silm several times and slogging through fragments of HoMe I have absorbed nothing and I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. ARGH.
And I wish I were this interested in my own original stuff.
Oh, p.s.: a rant!
Dave went over to his mom's the other day to pick some stuff up, and they had a pleasant conversation. And his mom asked when I was going to get a real job.
So now every time I express frustration with an aspect of my occupation, Dave asks when I'm going to get a real job.
"This job's real enough, isn't it? It feeds you," I answered. Honestly, what the hell's the point of A Real Job? I hated my last one with a violent hatred. This job just annoys me sometimes. And when I come home, my brain belongs to me again, and I can write. Not original stuff, apparently, which weakens my case, but I couldn't even write fanfic when I was a technical writer. What I did for fun back then, I don't even remember, but I sure as hell didn't write. (IIRC, I didn't have fun back then.) I hate looking for jobs more than anything, but I do keep an eye out on the job sites and classifieds and things. And there isn't anything anyway, in Buffalo.
So, I'll take the job I have, thanks. I don't even know what the fuck a "real job" is anyway. What do these people expect me to do? Follow my fucking dreams? Look, mate, I have a pretty good handle on my dreams and they don't involve a goddamn desk or any middle management. Trading in the shaker and tip jar (and a job that averages out eventually to about $15/hr, and is often higher than that) that I don't mind for a $10-an-hour Real Job I hate isn't exactly progress towards Following My Motherfucking Dreams like they all seem to want me to. So shut up: I've almost paid my bills and would have done so already if I weren't stuck with a $379.25-a-month car payment for a car I don't drive that doesn't belong to me.
I'm listening to bad pop-punk and feeling reminiscent for my college days, with inane pre-pop pop-punk-fuled road trips. (Rancid's ...and out come the wolves remains like the best road trip album ever, and i refuse to throw out the tape even though I never listen to tapes in the car anymore because, well, I take the bus.) But is it just me, or do they still play the same stuff on the radio that they did when I stopped listening in high school? I'm serious-- we had the radio on all the time at bartender school and I could sing along to every song on the "modern rock" station despite the fact that the last time I had any exposure to pop music was about 1996?
I'm eating a salad stolen from work. I got a chicken caesar salad and grabbed two caesar salad dressing packets. But the two packets are no nowhere to be found. So it's now a chicken and... wasabi ginger marinade I found in the fridge... salad. With croutons and parmesan cheese. Meh, I ain't complaining. It's... tangy.
Work last night was supremely pointless. I made under $20, and stood around a lot. They had three of us to man All-Stars, and there were no customers in it. So Judy told me about how her dog just got hit by a car... (Oh my GOD, I almost cried. She was, like, totally deadpan. "So I looked out and I saw the white in the road and I knew it was Bo. The car never even stopped. There weren't even any skid marks. Every one of her ribs was broken, and her skull too, and her leg was almost torn off." In a tone of voice like she was talking about the weather. And I'm sniffling and like, "Oh God, Judy," and can't even look at her or I'll cry), and Allison stood around feeling guilty that both Judy and I wanted her to sub for our shifts on Friday the 20th.
Oh yes-- that's the cool thing I found out-- there's absolutely no way I can get Friday the 20th off. So I'm going to call in sick that day. I'm not missing Dave's fucking graduation so I can sit in the fucking Club, and I'm going to tell the Club ladies so they have fair warning, because they're not going to be able to find a sub for my shift. (If they could, I would've done so already.) Though it strikes me that they should just put a cashier in there all the time, because it's cashier work that needs done, mostly-- doing dishes, manning the register, making change, and pouring pop. Cashiers make a higher base wage and don't make their living from tips. They'd be psyched about the $5 they'd make in tips in there, because they're already making like $8 an hour. (Union yes, folks.)
And then one of the supervisor/trainers (Micheal, and yes that's how he spells it) came by and was like, "Hey, meet Jessica. She's the new bartender." We all exchange glances. New bartender? And we've already got so many workers they're cutting my hours? And Allison wants more hours and isn't getting them? "Who's getting fired, Micheal?" Micheal shrugs. "I dunno." The new bartender looks nervous.
So we passed the rest of the boring long evening speculating on who's going. "They've been after HGLF for months," Allison said.
"Yes," I answered, "and nothing's come of it. Last week they were Totally Going To Fire [brunette girl] and what happened? She's got more hours. Sure. Not to mention that they've been after Crazy Lady for 7 years."
"They should be," Allison said. "She steals."
"They've fired her twice," I said. "They can't make it stick. So we know it's not her that's going; her job's safer than any of ours and wouldn't we all like to know why."
Today I've done laundry and am attempting to puzzle through the labyrinthine unfoldings of the First Age crap that keeps unravelling all over my brain. I just wanted hawt Elves to kiss, but now it's becoming apparent to me that despite reading the Silm several times and slogging through fragments of HoMe I have absorbed nothing and I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. ARGH.
And I wish I were this interested in my own original stuff.
Oh, p.s.: a rant!
Dave went over to his mom's the other day to pick some stuff up, and they had a pleasant conversation. And his mom asked when I was going to get a real job.
So now every time I express frustration with an aspect of my occupation, Dave asks when I'm going to get a real job.
"This job's real enough, isn't it? It feeds you," I answered. Honestly, what the hell's the point of A Real Job? I hated my last one with a violent hatred. This job just annoys me sometimes. And when I come home, my brain belongs to me again, and I can write. Not original stuff, apparently, which weakens my case, but I couldn't even write fanfic when I was a technical writer. What I did for fun back then, I don't even remember, but I sure as hell didn't write. (IIRC, I didn't have fun back then.) I hate looking for jobs more than anything, but I do keep an eye out on the job sites and classifieds and things. And there isn't anything anyway, in Buffalo.
So, I'll take the job I have, thanks. I don't even know what the fuck a "real job" is anyway. What do these people expect me to do? Follow my fucking dreams? Look, mate, I have a pretty good handle on my dreams and they don't involve a goddamn desk or any middle management. Trading in the shaker and tip jar (and a job that averages out eventually to about $15/hr, and is often higher than that) that I don't mind for a $10-an-hour Real Job I hate isn't exactly progress towards Following My Motherfucking Dreams like they all seem to want me to. So shut up: I've almost paid my bills and would have done so already if I weren't stuck with a $379.25-a-month car payment for a car I don't drive that doesn't belong to me.
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no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 05:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 05:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-03 06:02 pm (UTC)So I'm not exactly mad at him, but I'm still offended.
And I'm running out of ways to say "while this job annoys me, it doesn't drive me actively insane, and so I am on the whole happier than I would be in a Real Job, except that it's a constant struggle to manage the finances, due to the money-sucking automobile blowing the budget, and I doubt that would be any better in A Real Job."
I've tried that exact sentence and for some reason it doesn't stick in his head at all. Shrug.