The Day After

I survived.

I worked from 10 until 5.30 with a rushed half-hour lunch. I was on my feet all day except for the lunch and using the bathroom. I made mistakes. I was too friendly with the customers; I didn’t work fast enough; I wrote the stock info on the wrong side of the box; I can’t count back change off the top of my head without a calculator; when I was desperately searching for a stool on which to sit (Boss Lady thought I was going to the bathroom) I was reminded to tell her and the staff that I’m leaving the floor (there are only three of us); I was chided to be more careful with fragile stock; I wasted time because I didn’t know what to do next and Boss Lady was busy; I can not remember more than 25 percent of what I was told.

I realize, now, as I type that I have focused on the mistakes I made, not the things I did right. But, it’s only the mistakes that count, right?

I didn’t break anything; I proved efficient at unwrapping and re-wrapping new stock; I can “re-pop” the suction cup decorations…um I didn’t blatantly piss anybody off I don’t think.

In full disclosure: the day began with coffee, a cigarette and a milligram of Xanax. When I’m not working I rarely smoke before the afternoon or evening and do not take a milligram of my rescue Xanax on top of my Klonopin. I also said more than a few prayers.

Aunt, Daddy and Mom said it was a victory. But isn’t that like saying about a father: “He’s a great guy. We are so proud of him. He takes care of his child and goes to work.” That’s what a dad is supposed to do. I unpacked and packed china and ornamentals all day. I used to teach. But after a day of teaching the production value was negligible anyway.  At least at Caroline’s I know that the stock is packed away in the back room. After a day of teaching, I didn’t know what was accomplished.

I am so fucking tired today. Like deep-seated fatigue tired. Wimp. Ooooh, I got up at seven-ish and worked a full day. WOW. Me? Yeah, I have 14 years of teaching experience, journalism experience, a BA, MFA, and permanent teacher certification. So I did a real bang-up job yesterday.

(I did learn that Boss Lady is terrified of Swarovski Lady. Apparently, Swarovski Lady comes periodically to discuss new lines and such and if the display cases aren’t just so, Boss Lady gets in trouble. I had no idea that the Swarovski people were such tyrants!)

I don’t have a right to be this tired. I could like the job. I could do the job well. I could…

Yahoo CEO will get over two million dollars as a severance. That is mother-fucking, cock-sucking, moose cock-blowing, bull-shit, ri-fucking-diculous. That is what is wrong with America. If I had 250,000 dollars my life would change forever. I’d still have to work or collect disability or whatever—but my life would change. House, loans, car, credit card, health—covered. And people that teachers make too much? WTF?

As I was re-wrapping a freaky clip-on hummingbird ornament yesterday (the beak bends, the wings are flexible, but it’s like glass…weird), I thought about how I was making nine dollars an hour. I used to make over 50 dollars an hour. After you stay a couple of times in the nut-house and OD, your expectations for yourself drop. Saint Jude, I am grateful for the money—that is almost my health insurance for the month. For having a sex-tape on the internet and a reality show, Kim Kardashian makes 30 million a year. WTF?

And, I realize that my nine dollars an hour (THANK YOU SAINT JUDE) is a whole helluva lot more than a lot of people make and I HAVE A JOB. I recognized that. Choosing to order or not to order 2016 Birthday Wishes Barbie (all pink and poofy—I had to!) is what my flaming, bleeding-heart, don’t-exist-without-her, mother would call a first world problem. And it is. I know that I will never: be out on the street; not have enough to eat; lack health care; or love. For that I am eternally grateful the God, all the Saints, (Especially Saint Jude—we have a deal) and Mother Mary.

But the expectations and realities of my world—the world I lived in as a middle-class woman—have changed a lot because I’m crazy. Because I screwed up? Oh, and that nine dollars an hour becomes six dollars after taxes, just like that 50 dollars and hour became something like 27 dollars after taxes.

I didn’t want this post to be about me whining or complaining that I’m underpaid. I cannot express in words the gratitude I have for God, Mother Mary, Christ, and Saint Jude for my blessing.

I am just thinking out-loud--how my life got from where is was in 2012 to where it is in 2016. Actually, I think I like it better now. Huh.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS: Gotta take G-Pa for a ride in the country. More corn…yay! I may be skipping the senior citizen laden church supper at I-HOP tonight. Aunt is going with G-Pa. A woman can only do so much!

PPS: I suffer. You suffer. People are way worse off than we are; people are way better off than we are. That doesn’t negate our suffering.

PPPS: Some of the shit that people actually is down right ugly! Hideous. Yuck. And Society picks on Barbie. Yeah, right.