Various Updates

Originally posted November 16/2007 on "Allison Wonderland"



26 weeks pregnant, and we have finally reached the point where I'm getting "The Look" from customers at work. The shocked look that tells me they think I'm too young to be having a baby... or the "look away- quickly!" reaction. That means that it is now clear to complete strangers that I'm eating for 2, not drinking 2-4's.

I haven't had any comments yet. When I was pregnant with Simon, I got all variations of "Wow... you don't look old enough to be pregnant!" I know I've said this before, but really, when would that statement ever be appropriate? I get off easy; I can say "I'm older than I look." I leave it at that. It's not their business, really, and I don't feel like defending myself by saying I'm 26, and I've been married for blah, blah, blah... What if I was sixteen? What answer would satisfy the person who said that? "Yes, I'm far too young. Others should learn from my example. This is the tragedy of my generation." I don't know.

I saw the OB a few days ago; she's scheduling a c-section for me the week of February 14th. Mom's waiting for a date so she can book her flight; I'm wondering whether it would be a good or bad thing if the kid ends up with the same birthday as her, my aunt Kathy and my cousin Faith. That would be weird.

*******

The house has been sold. Hooray! We're done with showings. The home inspector has come and gone... he made a lot of notes. The appraiser came by, too. I guess it's all going well so far. In fact, it's working out VERY well for us. See, Clompie has agreed to get any plumbing or electrical issues taken care of before the final inspection. Whoopee! The plumber came by yesterday, and after a year and a half living here, we now have a faucet on the tub that doesn't leak. We no longer have to manually turn the hot water on and off when we want a bath or shower. And we're getting a new shower head, one that isn't held up with duct-tape. Oh, it's sweeeet. As for the porch roof... well, I really can't see the new owners getting that taken care of before the spring, so until outside temperatures start to stay below freezing, we have an entryway with a bulging ceiling, wet carpet and distinctly fishy odour. Eeeew! We keep that door shut.

*********

I finally got my one year review at work. I started working for the company almost 3 1/2 years ago, so I guess it was about time. I'll be getting a raise; it was a good review. Actually, the comments made me sound like that kid in school who everyone hated because he/she makes the rest of the class look bad. That's OK. Actually, it was good to hear, 'cause I'm starting to feel useless at the store. I can't roll racks of clothes from the fitting rooms without it hurting my belly; carrying armloads of clothes is starting to hurt, too. I'm not supposed to answer the OSD door (on-site donations' also known as the SOB door or the OCD door) in case people have heavy stuff to donate- which they usually do. My back hurts after 3 hours standing on the floor, and bending over is... less easy than it used to be.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a very adorable boy trapped in his baby-cage who is not sleeping- it sounds like he's trying to escape. That probably means he's actually throwing all of his toys out of said baby-cage so that he'll feel justified when he starts crying in 10 minutes. I must go prepare.

Work- the Good Stuff

Originally posted July 16/2007 on "Allison Wonderland"


I know that I spend an excessive amount of time (and space) bitching about work- the overworked, underpaid, Stinkwater parts. Sometimes, though, I go in for a shift and I'm reminded of why I'm still there. It's not the job- it's the people.

Friday was a bad day. Friday was a spent the day crying, thought AJ was going to have to take me to the emergency room*, feeling guilty for crying in front of Simon day. Most days right now I'm ok, but once in a while my hormones do something that makes it feel like I've never been treated for depression- I'm back in the whirlpool again. Simon was so good about it- I was trying not to cry in front of him (I never want him to wonder if it's his fault), but he's not stupid. He knew what was up. So he took care of me; he tried to feed me his lunch, and he kept running over to give me more hugs and kisses than I usually get in a week. They say toddlers don't understand that other people have feelings, but I'm not so sure about that.

In any case, I went to work that night. I had calmed down; I was exhausted, I looked like shit, but I was there. The first person I saw was was the Spookster- he was on the phone in the back. "I gotta call you back," he said, and hung up. I was back to being a little weepy by then, so he came into the break room to see what was up. Everyone there knows I'm pregnant, so they're quite understanding. I got a big, comforting hugm and cried all over him- I think I cried as much because he cared that much as because I was crying anyway. Like I said- crying at everything. And then C. came in.

"EEEEEEEEEK!"

C. likes to squeal, especially every time she looks at my belly, which doesn't even look pregnant yet. She gives good hugs, too. "I so wish I was pregnant," she said. I laughed. There I was, crying for no reason, no make-up on my pale, blotchy face, wanting to barf every 5 seconds, in desperate need of about 12 hours' sleep... and people want to be pregnant. Oh, it's magical, alright. Yeah, it's worth it in the end, and I know most people don't get it as bad as I do (I think my mom did, in fact, have magical pregnancies), but it's still funny to hear people say that.

Down on the floor, T. (the most overworked and underpaid of the lot of us) asked how I was doing, let me do my thing at the fitting rooms and wouldn't let me do any heavy lifting.

The point is, the people I work with are great. The ones who stick around for a while are the ones who take care of each other. We're all in it together, up to our armpits in mess, working our asses off (most of us) for $7.50 an hour... or less. But we have fun. I don't hang out with anyone from work in my non-working hours, but I consider many of them my friends. I don't want to get sappy or anything... they're just great people to have around when you need comfort... or a laugh... or timbits (thanks, Spookerooni).

That's why I'm still there.





*This is what you're supposed to do. Even if your emergency is of the mental health variety, go to the emergency room. They have people who will help you (and not look at you like you're crazy).

Negotiations

Originally posted April 23/2007 on "Allison Wonderland"



(The following is posted entirely for the benefit of my mom, who for some reason was not able to open the attachment when I e-mailed it to her. But you can read it, too.)

Negotiations

OK, ladies, let's come to order. Ladies? Gals? MOMMIES! That's better. Thanks.

Let's get this meeting started. For the written record, this is the first meeting of the proposed Mommy Union- got that, madam secretary? Wha- arrowroot biscuits in the keyboard? Just take notes be hand, then. What was I saying? Oh, meeting. We're here to discuss our position for upcoming negotiations. It's time that our situation improved, time that we were appreciated for the many jobs we do.

OK, whose phone is that? No... A marble in his nose? Yes, you may be excused.

Back to business. I'm handing out a list of proposed points for negotiation- we'll read over them, and discussion will follow.

Point 1: The pay sucks- sloppy kisses and toothless grins aside, of course. When's the last time one of us cashed a paycheque for what we do? I heard that a recent estimate put the value of a Mommy's work at over $130,000 a year. This may be a bit low- we're looking into it.

Point 2: Sick days. We don't get 'em. If anyone else in the family is sick, we're there with acetaminophen, towels and a barf-bowl. When we're out with a bug that we probably caught from the kids, though, we can't call in sick. No one fills in for us- most of the time, anyway. Even if we get to lie down, there's still the soft knock at the door; "Mommy? Mommy, will you play Candyland now? It won't make you frow up..."

Point 3: Working Hours. In the early months of our careers, work is 24/7, with no regularly scheduled lunch or coffee breaks. Even after the kids are sleeping through the night, or when they're off to school, we're on-call every hour, every day. And weekends and holidays off? Fuggedaboudit. Those are a Mommy's busy season!

Point 4: Pension. Not only are we not getting paid, we also have a retirement plan that consists of crossing our fingers and praying the kids pick a decent retirement home. At this point it looks like most of us are headed for Barneyville retirement castle, but we're hoping that our prospects will improve in the future.

Point 5: Workplace safety. Yes, a babyproofed home may seem like a safe work environment, but this is true only if you ignore the regular tripping over baby-gates, burns from hot trays of chicken fingers and the inevitable regular exposure to toxic wastes we encounter while on diaper-duty.

Mommies, this is unacceptable. No one else in this country is expected to work under these conditions. Um... there is one teensy little problem, though. See, we seem to have very little of what they call leverage.What are we going to do if they don't give into our demands? Anyone willing to strike? Show of hands... See, there's the problem. Will we quit if our demands are not met, so that our families will have to bring in expensive nannies, chauffeurs, maids, personal shoppers, tutors and accountants? No, no I'm not going to do that. You? No? Right...

Well, we'll discuss this next week. You are all going to be here next week, right? Nancy? Ballet recital, eh? Oh, tell Beatrice I said break a leg. No, not really. Jane? Uh-huh, OK. Well, we'll reschedule. Um... I'll call you. As soon as we figure out where the dog buried the cordless phone.

Meeting adjourned.


small note: all the spell checker could come up with for "fuggedaboudit" was "skateboarded". Good try, though.

PS

Originally posted January 7/2007 on "Allison Wonderland"


Hey, I almost forgot to tell you- I totally thought for a minute that Jesus was shopping at my store last night. Seriously, the guy had the long hair, the beard... everything you see in the presumably inaccurate paintings of white (ie- non-middle eastern) Jesus. Yeah, he was shopping for bell-bottoms.

But I'm pretty sure Jesus wouldn't leave 4 pairs of pants behind for me to clean up when he left the fitting rooms.


There are crows in my back yead. A whole bunch of them. Know what a group of crows is called? A murder. There's a murder in my back yard.


I need to go to bed...

Yet Another Pounding Nigerian

Originally posted December 18/2006 on "Allison Wonderland"


OK, in case you don't now what the hell that title means: The spell check on a writing program I use does not recognize the word "migraine," and it's a word that I use a lot. The best the program can come up with is to suggest that I have a "pounding Nigerian," which quite frankly sounds like a whole lot more fun than the headache I'm stuck with...

Yes, it's yet another happy, happy migraine day. It's getting ridiculous. Every other day I've at least got a headache that makes it feel like my brain is trying to bust out of my skull; on really special days like today (a few times a week) I get added dizziness and nausea. Some fun, huh?

Obviously I'm not calling in sick every time this happens. Not only would I lose my job, but being at home isn't that much more relaxing, anyway. I do just as well to take my Advil liqui-gels, suck back a pot of tea and stumble through the work day. Good thing a trained monkey could probably do my job. I'm pretty sure customers suspect that I'm drunk on days like today... The distinct disadvantage to being at work with a headache is the incessant BUZZING. You can't get away from it at the store. The lights buzz- a high-pitched whine, like a mosquito singing in your ear in the middle of the night. Then there's this other, lower buzz, which I think has something to do with the ventilation system. Customers complain, but nothing has been done yet. Staff complain, too, with the same result. It's annoying on days when I don't have a headache; on days with one, it's almost unbearable. But at least I'm making money... sort of.

I found out last night that migraines are actually a withdrawal symptom for many people coming off Effexor, which I take a fairly high dose of every day. Could that have something to do with my increasingly severe (and frequent) headaches? I'm not in withdrawal, but I just wonder... I think it's time to see the shrink again to ask about switching meds. It's a terrifying prospect, especially considering what I've gone through on other antidepressants, but between the headaches and the other unpleasant side effects, it might be time to give it a shot. Maybe there's a medication out there that will help with the screwed-up chemicals in my brain while allowing me to NOT have a pounding Nigerian- I mean, migraine- every time the air pressure goes up. I won't know unless we try, right?

Late Nights

Originally posted December 17/2006 on "Allison Wonderland (Livejournal)"

YAAAAAAAAAWN! (OK, so it's only midnight. That's past my bedtime, people!)

We had another late night at work- the store closed at nine, and we strolled out at 11:15. Why, you ask? Because I work in a huge, understaffed thrift store, that's why. But more than that, it's because we have the messiest customers on EARTH. Those hours we spend there after the store closes? That's just cleaning up after people. People who take clothes off the racks and drop them on the floor. People who pick things up in one section and decide to leave them in another (Yes, we actually have to fix that after you leave). People who can't be bothered to actually bring their unwanted items out from the fitting rooms with them, or even (heavens above!) HANG THEM UP. People who bring their paper coffee-cup in and then can't be bothered to actually locate a garbage can when they're done their cuppa joe.

I could go on, but you get the idea.

It's not everyone. There are probably more good customers than bad ones... at least, I choose to believe that there are. If I didn't, I'd go nuts. But you don't get a chance to notice the good ones, even when you try to. Not when you're sidetracked by people bitching about the prices the store has to charge in order to (under)pay the staff, people haggling over a 99-cent unicorn figurine, and (let's not forget) cleaning up after them. And not just the clothes; you should see the state people leave the friggin' bathroom in. Disgusting! Learn to AIM, people! Are we savages?!!

If you're one of THOSE customers (but of course, you're not, right?) you're probably thinking, "Honey, that's what you get PAID for." People have actually said this, as if by making a mess they're keeping me employed. Let me share a secret with you, darlin': Maids and janitors make a heck of a lot more per hour than I do. And those high prices you love to complain about? Maybe they'd be lower if the store didn't have to pay the staff to stay until 11:00 at night cleaning up after you. Just a thought.

As for those of you who try not to make a mess, who CAN be bothered to put back the stuff you don't want (or heck, even just drop it off at the fitting rooms so we can find it), who make our lives easier with kind words and sympathetic smiles: Thanks. I assume you've worked in customer service before, and you know what a difference it makes. I wish there were more of you.

And to the woman who brings her little dog in with her, who let it crap on the floor and then left it there so another customer could drive a friggin' cart through it?* Thanks a million. Please take your business elsewhere; I don't get paid enough to deal with your (or your dog's) crap.

*note: this didn't happen while I was working, thank God. But I feel the pain of the guy who had to clean it up... GAG!