My life is basically this crazy as hell runaway train of back to back "you've got to be Fucking Kidding Me" moments in time that make my head spin constantly. Now, given that I am the type of woman who likes to triple the amount of pressure I am under by creating imaginary things to flip out about, it's amazing that I'm not on serious medication.
But...you see...I'm not, because there are these little, precious moments in time that I freeze into my own memory and pop out like a mental lozange to suck on right as my panic level reaches critical mass.
Moments like my son sitting on my lap on the bus with his little hands grasping mine trying to make me do the Itsy Bitsy Spider motions while he lisps out the words. The warm smell of his hair in my nose and feeling his infectious giggle bubble up against me. Granted, in about two hours from said moment we'll be in a battle of the wits over the benefits of eating dinner, but for that particular frozen moment, things are perfect.
Moments like a hot summer night with the christmas lights on in our bedroom, Scott and I wearing nothing but underwear and giggling over the possibility of putting my cat on a treadmill and his quite possibly being the first feline Forrest Gump. We caress eachother because we need to, and knowing everyday that despite my own little neurotic outbursts, this is still the most perfect relationship I've ever been in and I can feel how much I love this person with every breath I take.
Moments like reading through my friends lives on the wire and seeing one get married, another have a beautiful child, and another having an amazing relationship with her daughter and knowing that, hey, we're all a little screwed up, but we all keep on chuggin' down the tracks. The bad moments are hard as hell and can make you feel choked by all that's wrong on this planet. But those perfect little moments in between...the ones we sometimes forget to put in the mental freezer...those are what keep us on the tracks.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
You've got to be F'ing Kidding me
This is apparently my new catch phrase in life, because this is what I end up uttering on an almost hourly basis. The most perfect example of this can be found in my recent trip to a doctor's office which has recently turned into a goodawful nightmare.
See, Thursday morning I was having a particularly bad bout of allergies, and by midday my left eye was all icky looking, red, and irritated. I thought nothing, and went about my day. Friday it was pretty bad. Saturday I wanted to claw the damn thing out, and one of my co-workers finally said "Hey, how'd you burst a blood vessell in your eye?" Realizing I was now probably scaring customers, I made a quick call to the optometrist I normally get contact lenses at, and they said it'd probably be a good idea to take a quick peak and see if they could recommend a good set of eye drops until it went away.
So, I go down there, and after the ol' twenty minutes of trying not to breath or blink while the Doc peers at my eyes through a Kavorkian looking contraption and going "mmmmmmmmm" she pushed back and proceeded to flip out on me about how "serious" this was. Apparently, it wasn't a blood vessell, it was some bizarro crap called epescleritis. What's so craptastic and Phrase-Of-The-day inspiring about this is since she started grilling me about my muscle, back, and joint pain she says this condition is most commonly an underlying symptom of R.A.(Rheumatoid Arthritis).
Why couldn't I just have fucking pink eye...
So, what turned into a "haha, silly allergies!" issue now turned into me having to be up at the eye doctor every day watching the deterioration of my sight while making emergency appointments with a GP to do a full rheumatoid panel to find out if and how severe the condition I am in is. See, I have a lot of physiological problems already. My back screams nightly, my knees and ankles pop and usually feel like mush, and my wrists and fingers have been increasingly tightening. I have an increasing loss of appetite, run random fevers, and have insane headaches. Now, all of these can be attributed to the incredible amount of physical and emotional stress my job puts me under. But appaarently they also happen to be glaring red warning signs of early stage RA. So, doc's freaked, I'm a little edgey, and I can't see out of my left eye because it has this crap I have to put in every two hours.
You have got to be FUcking kidding me...
See, Thursday morning I was having a particularly bad bout of allergies, and by midday my left eye was all icky looking, red, and irritated. I thought nothing, and went about my day. Friday it was pretty bad. Saturday I wanted to claw the damn thing out, and one of my co-workers finally said "Hey, how'd you burst a blood vessell in your eye?" Realizing I was now probably scaring customers, I made a quick call to the optometrist I normally get contact lenses at, and they said it'd probably be a good idea to take a quick peak and see if they could recommend a good set of eye drops until it went away.
So, I go down there, and after the ol' twenty minutes of trying not to breath or blink while the Doc peers at my eyes through a Kavorkian looking contraption and going "mmmmmmmmm" she pushed back and proceeded to flip out on me about how "serious" this was. Apparently, it wasn't a blood vessell, it was some bizarro crap called epescleritis. What's so craptastic and Phrase-Of-The-day inspiring about this is since she started grilling me about my muscle, back, and joint pain she says this condition is most commonly an underlying symptom of R.A.(Rheumatoid Arthritis).
Why couldn't I just have fucking pink eye...
So, what turned into a "haha, silly allergies!" issue now turned into me having to be up at the eye doctor every day watching the deterioration of my sight while making emergency appointments with a GP to do a full rheumatoid panel to find out if and how severe the condition I am in is. See, I have a lot of physiological problems already. My back screams nightly, my knees and ankles pop and usually feel like mush, and my wrists and fingers have been increasingly tightening. I have an increasing loss of appetite, run random fevers, and have insane headaches. Now, all of these can be attributed to the incredible amount of physical and emotional stress my job puts me under. But appaarently they also happen to be glaring red warning signs of early stage RA. So, doc's freaked, I'm a little edgey, and I can't see out of my left eye because it has this crap I have to put in every two hours.
You have got to be FUcking kidding me...
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Why aren't the rats leaping yet?
Alright, so when the same stress keeps piling up over and over, I start hermitting, because frankly, I don't want to be that one gal who always has the same damn bitch-fest about the same damn thing every time you are near here.
Buuuuut, the stress level lately has reached epic proportions, so sit down only if you choose to read a collossal venting about the hell that is the company I work for. Although, hey, if you know other people who work for this same place, then chances are you've already seen similar blog blowups and heard tear-filled conversations of frenzied "OHMYGODINEEDANEWJOB
*gasp*
ICAN'TFUCKINGBELIEVEHOWBADIT'SGOTTEN"
yup. Bad enough to sway even your dear old mama, the ever twitchy, obscure knowledge lovin', happy to play with resistors, knows even the creepiest information about home networking and cell phones, better than a family doctor, incredibly proud to be a radioshack manager that I am.
It started towards the end of the year. Our profit "goals" (read quota because if you don't reach them you are in for hell") were astronomical. I didn't even realize I was working 70 plus hour workweeks until I'd look back at my timeclock report and go "HOLY FUCK!!!". Of course, the nifty little million dollar program we were forced to use our scheduling was cxonstantly jamming me into these odd shifts, but we couldn't say diddly about it because apparently since it cost so much it was our new god. How the hell can one expect a fucking computer program to schedule for the ever changing and incredibly nuanced environment of small box retail?! Oh, yeah it can't. But we're told to follow it like good little children.
So, end of the year comes, company declares a HUGE profit, and yippe for us! We get a new pay structure put into place. Salaries are slashed and mandatory scheduled hours are increased. Off season for a manager used to mean 45 hours, now we are working 51 hours MINIMUM per scheduled week, or it's our hides. Seriously, if you are scheduled less than that you get a nasty little call and bitching. Of course, most of us are working that anyways, because our profit quotas (now referred to as "plan") has been increased and micro-managed. 51 hours a week...on 10% less pay...oh, yeah, and the smaller stores get the added benefit of becoming reduced to hourly employees. When a few of us actually worked out what our hourly take was, we realized it amounted to about 8 an hour. Gee...thanks...good to know I am so well compensated for running your business.
Oh, but now we'll throw on a few bits of icing...those benefits? Like childcare discounts, tuition reimbursement? nah, we don't need those. Especially not us single mothers.
Oh, since we have to tighten the belt a little further, let's go ahead and limit that magical all knowoing scheduling program to a weekly budget of total manhours you can schedule within your store. To, well, an amount that leaves the manager alone in the store most of the time, and anyone who resembles a decent employee quitting because they can't live off of 15 hours a week. 1 store, twelve hours a day, 150 hours to schedule total, including my mandatory 51. So, 99 hours a week to distribute between 3 full time employees and 2 part timers. Yeah, a bunch of my staff wandered. So I get to work open to close by myself a couple days a week. Hire some part timers to fill the gap? Can't, because with 150 hours, I don't have room to have them sitting in the back training. If I lose anyone else, I'll be working more solo hours until I find a new person and eak out a training set up for them.
Oh, why don't I just say screw you and schedule the way my store needs to be staffed? Well, you see, that whole "rule by intimidation" thing apparently is the new thing. If you go over by 1 hour in your budget, you will get a call. If you don't correct this grievous error, your schedule will be wiped clean of employees and you, the manager, will work open to close for a solid week by yourself. The area vice president will personally make sure you serve your punishment. When you add in what goes into running your store, you are looking at a 90 hour week, no breaks, no lunch, no day off, no time with kids.
We get daily calls in regards to the credit card we are supposed to be pushing like meth onto our customers. Hmmm...and they wonder why people are heading to other stores? They train the piss out of our brains in LCD televisions...then they suddenly decide to remove our entire stock out of the stores and onto the website. The biggest profit builder (add in the accessories we know to provide and the service plans we know are a killer deal and make our associates money), and it's now taken away from the store fronts.
This company is going to start losing the reason customers come to our stores. Good managers. I've seen them leaving in droves. They are frantically replaced by inexperienced hotheads who have a fraction of the knowledge the vets did. And more customers leave.
I think I see more rats jumping...hey, are my feet wet?
Buuuuut, the stress level lately has reached epic proportions, so sit down only if you choose to read a collossal venting about the hell that is the company I work for. Although, hey, if you know other people who work for this same place, then chances are you've already seen similar blog blowups and heard tear-filled conversations of frenzied "OHMYGODINEEDANEWJOB
*gasp*
ICAN'TFUCKINGBELIEVEHOWBADIT'SGOTTEN"
yup. Bad enough to sway even your dear old mama, the ever twitchy, obscure knowledge lovin', happy to play with resistors, knows even the creepiest information about home networking and cell phones, better than a family doctor, incredibly proud to be a radioshack manager that I am.
It started towards the end of the year. Our profit "goals" (read quota because if you don't reach them you are in for hell") were astronomical. I didn't even realize I was working 70 plus hour workweeks until I'd look back at my timeclock report and go "HOLY FUCK!!!". Of course, the nifty little million dollar program we were forced to use our scheduling was cxonstantly jamming me into these odd shifts, but we couldn't say diddly about it because apparently since it cost so much it was our new god. How the hell can one expect a fucking computer program to schedule for the ever changing and incredibly nuanced environment of small box retail?! Oh, yeah it can't. But we're told to follow it like good little children.
So, end of the year comes, company declares a HUGE profit, and yippe for us! We get a new pay structure put into place. Salaries are slashed and mandatory scheduled hours are increased. Off season for a manager used to mean 45 hours, now we are working 51 hours MINIMUM per scheduled week, or it's our hides. Seriously, if you are scheduled less than that you get a nasty little call and bitching. Of course, most of us are working that anyways, because our profit quotas (now referred to as "plan") has been increased and micro-managed. 51 hours a week...on 10% less pay...oh, yeah, and the smaller stores get the added benefit of becoming reduced to hourly employees. When a few of us actually worked out what our hourly take was, we realized it amounted to about 8 an hour. Gee...thanks...good to know I am so well compensated for running your business.
Oh, but now we'll throw on a few bits of icing...those benefits? Like childcare discounts, tuition reimbursement? nah, we don't need those. Especially not us single mothers.
Oh, since we have to tighten the belt a little further, let's go ahead and limit that magical all knowoing scheduling program to a weekly budget of total manhours you can schedule within your store. To, well, an amount that leaves the manager alone in the store most of the time, and anyone who resembles a decent employee quitting because they can't live off of 15 hours a week. 1 store, twelve hours a day, 150 hours to schedule total, including my mandatory 51. So, 99 hours a week to distribute between 3 full time employees and 2 part timers. Yeah, a bunch of my staff wandered. So I get to work open to close by myself a couple days a week. Hire some part timers to fill the gap? Can't, because with 150 hours, I don't have room to have them sitting in the back training. If I lose anyone else, I'll be working more solo hours until I find a new person and eak out a training set up for them.
Oh, why don't I just say screw you and schedule the way my store needs to be staffed? Well, you see, that whole "rule by intimidation" thing apparently is the new thing. If you go over by 1 hour in your budget, you will get a call. If you don't correct this grievous error, your schedule will be wiped clean of employees and you, the manager, will work open to close for a solid week by yourself. The area vice president will personally make sure you serve your punishment. When you add in what goes into running your store, you are looking at a 90 hour week, no breaks, no lunch, no day off, no time with kids.
We get daily calls in regards to the credit card we are supposed to be pushing like meth onto our customers. Hmmm...and they wonder why people are heading to other stores? They train the piss out of our brains in LCD televisions...then they suddenly decide to remove our entire stock out of the stores and onto the website. The biggest profit builder (add in the accessories we know to provide and the service plans we know are a killer deal and make our associates money), and it's now taken away from the store fronts.
This company is going to start losing the reason customers come to our stores. Good managers. I've seen them leaving in droves. They are frantically replaced by inexperienced hotheads who have a fraction of the knowledge the vets did. And more customers leave.
I think I see more rats jumping...hey, are my feet wet?
Monday, April 23, 2007
Just in time for Mother's Day
Ok, so back on my 27th b-day last year, my dad asked me what I wanted. I blurted out that I really wanted to get the tattoo I've been planning since, oh, my son was born. I had in my head a lovely cross with some sort of nod to the vines I have, and Anthony's name written NOT in that crappy, everyone-has-it-script, but printed neatly in the same font as Nightmare Before Christmas. I never had the money (or the support of the ex-hubster) to get it done before, and this was my chance.
Soooo...after my little birthday surprise of landing in the hospital, I was quickly barrelling into the busy season at work, and my "gift" sort of got backburnered. Once January rolled in and the psycho 12+ hour days trickled off, I finally got around to calling Ben at Apocalyse, the nice gent who did all my original work. But, well, I still work 6 days a week, and the guy was pretty much booked through JUNE. So, I resigned myself to finding a more conveniently located studio, with a more open schedule. Boooooooooy was that a mistake.
See, I stupidly wandered into the infamous Top Tattoo which is just blocks away from home. I checked out the books, and settled on an artist who seemed to have a good array of black and grey work. He came out and talked to me for a bit, and we set an appointment, with the art to be pre-sketched based on some referrences I dropped off and checked out a week before the actual inking.
When I went in to look at the art is where the trouble began. I had originally dropped off a copy of a cross I have on my wall, a referrence of the font, and explained the desire to tie in my leaves. I explained that because of the pencil sketch look of my leaves, and of course the very nature of the tat, I wanted it to have a soft, organic feel. What I got was a hardlined sketch of a typical sailor's cross, no leaves, and apparently he thought putting my SON'S NAME on me was "trite". He didn't want to do it at all, and said the significance of the cross should be enough. I gritted my teeth, reitterated my original designs, and let him know that instead of a tattoo in one week, he'd be showing me another sketch and we'd push my appointment out until I was happy. He was very bully-ish about the whole thing, insisting that what he was doing would be fine. Nevermind what I was wanting to wear on my body for the rest of my goddamn life.
An hour before I was supposed to go look at sketch #2 he rang me up and explained that there was a power outage and he couldn't finish my sketch, so he'd call me when it was ready. I didn't hear from the asshole for a month. I finally called and demanded that since I had no sketch, and the first was NOT what I had originally presented, I wanted my deposit back and I'd go somewhere else. The guy totally creeped me out and made me feel bullied. Needless to say, the SOB still has my deposit, because despite the fact that he screwed up, non-refundable means they can screw you.
I called Ben back in tears, and he promptly calmed me down and asked me to come to his studio and check out the books of his bretheren (who have more open schedules than he). His confidence in his mates is great, and I agreed. Scott and I had a day we were spending downtown, so we wandered in and flipped through a few books. All the work at this particular studio is honestly nothing less than artistic mastery. No flash could ever do justice to the talent that ALL the artists there have. Seriously, if you need ink and you live around here, hunt them down and let them work their magic.
I settled on the book of young master Bryan Griffith. His black and grey work was beautiful, and it must have been fate because within his book there was a cross DAMN close to what I had envisioned. He came out and was immediately excited about it, and had me completely at ease within nanoseconds. He's even a Burton geek himself, and whipped out a book when I mentioned my desired typeface. I knew this guy was the one (geesh, it's like falling in love) and I made the appointment, trusting him enough to even let the sketch be set on the day of.
See for yourself, what the guy did is above and beyond what I expected. It's gorgeous, and everything I wanted in this piece. I even have grapes now (he worked them into the center of the cross), so all those who whined about the vine being barren of fruit can shaddap.
Excuse me now while I go limp through another happy dance. And thank you, Daddy, for making this dream finally come true!!
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Hippity Hop Hop
So, Easter is next week and I have already scurried to a few stores and picked up a basket o' goodies for the wee one. He's at that age where I have to be pretty damn creative with the contents now. Can't really do candy, because dear God nothing is scarier than a three year old on a chocolate bunny sugar high. Can't do the typical toys because Anthony can't really get into them yet, and can't do the crayons and like because I like having clean walls. I swear, whoever invented that crayola colour wonder stuff must have had a hyperactive toddler, because I am telling you that shit is genius. I also got a Dora DVD (and tylenol for myself), and a few random soft toys.
So, I make the plans for egg colouring and brunch with the folks, and then turn on the news to see a giant protest hullabaloo over an anatomically correct chocolate Jesus Christ that was supposed to be displayed in New York. Some Catholic whack job is acting displaying less maturity than my toddler, adn the artist is sitting there in mild amusement and disdain for the ruckus his unique creation caused. Granted, his "reasonings" were very tongue in cheek, but it did really bring the whole holiday to a glaring point for me. Note to Catholic whackjobs...it wasn't this mans fervent display of faith that irritated me, it was his demeanor. I've seen plenty of well spoken and well thought Christian Activists, but this guy was simply being an asshole and insulted the entire artist community, thus negating any real argument he may have had over the nature of aforementioned sculpture. Referring to all artists as Losers and the entire community of SoHo as a "dump for filth" does not a valid arguement make.
Like many people, I think of Easter and think oversized chocolate bunnies, cadbury eggs, and getting brightly coloured vinegar all over my kitchen table. I will stick bunny ears on my offspring and the cats, attempt to create far too many deviled eggs in my efforts to rid myself of hard boiled nightmares, and revel in teh glory that is Dove chocolate.
Do I understand the true meaning of Easter? Of course, I was raised catholic, DER. But as I have drastically changed my opinions on faith in recent years, I choose not to attend mass, hang up little Jesuses, or pray to the glory of the resurrection. I still don't eat meat on Good Friday though, habits die hard.
But I chose not to celebrate this item of faith, and I chose not to cram my developing child's head with the unintangible concept of Faith. He gets confused with the science fiction that Disney channel has, how could he possibly grasp the intricacies that a thousand year old "idea" based on an archaic book attempts to implant? He couldn't, so I choose to teach him that this is a celebration of something comprehendable, such as the return of Spring. Hence the bunnies and eggs, which by the way, harken back to Paegan traditions so all of you Bible Thumpers might want to forgo the cadbury bunny.
But the concept that the artist was bringing to light was not the concious choice of spring versus resurrection, but the one of laziness and acceptance of Hallmark ideals in christian groups. They drag the kiddies to mass, then stuff them with chocolate bunnies, but don't explain the concepts behind either. So young children see Easter as this oddly confusing blurp in the year that revolves around cadbury chocolates, bright pink eggs hidden by a rabbit and...uh...jesus. And then the day is gone and all that's left are jelly beans and a bewilderment as to what all the ruckus is over a particular Sunday.
So I find what Cosimo Cavallaro pretty understandable as a person of faith. You want your Christ and your friggin hallmark? Fine, have a chocolate Jesus. Oh, now you are protesting it...why?
"Because it's appalling"
Why?
Being anatomically correct to me is no more offensive than the graphic nature of that horrid snuff film Mel Gibson came out with.
And it being chocolate shouldn't be offensive, because we eat the body of christ every time we take the communion (hello, tasteless wafers).
So, why the uproar? Perhaps it's because it's too glaring a reminder of the hypocricy many people of faith are currently upholding. Especially when there are the ridicuulous explanations of Jesus loved bunnies and they had eggs at the Last Supper. *sigh* one, or the other, or explain both. I'm going with Spring, and when Anthony is older I'll explain the other side of "Holy Week" to him, and let him make his own choices on intangible things such as faith and belief. But right now he's three. And bunnies make sense.
So, I make the plans for egg colouring and brunch with the folks, and then turn on the news to see a giant protest hullabaloo over an anatomically correct chocolate Jesus Christ that was supposed to be displayed in New York. Some Catholic whack job is acting displaying less maturity than my toddler, adn the artist is sitting there in mild amusement and disdain for the ruckus his unique creation caused. Granted, his "reasonings" were very tongue in cheek, but it did really bring the whole holiday to a glaring point for me. Note to Catholic whackjobs...it wasn't this mans fervent display of faith that irritated me, it was his demeanor. I've seen plenty of well spoken and well thought Christian Activists, but this guy was simply being an asshole and insulted the entire artist community, thus negating any real argument he may have had over the nature of aforementioned sculpture. Referring to all artists as Losers and the entire community of SoHo as a "dump for filth" does not a valid arguement make.
Like many people, I think of Easter and think oversized chocolate bunnies, cadbury eggs, and getting brightly coloured vinegar all over my kitchen table. I will stick bunny ears on my offspring and the cats, attempt to create far too many deviled eggs in my efforts to rid myself of hard boiled nightmares, and revel in teh glory that is Dove chocolate.
Do I understand the true meaning of Easter? Of course, I was raised catholic, DER. But as I have drastically changed my opinions on faith in recent years, I choose not to attend mass, hang up little Jesuses, or pray to the glory of the resurrection. I still don't eat meat on Good Friday though, habits die hard.
But I chose not to celebrate this item of faith, and I chose not to cram my developing child's head with the unintangible concept of Faith. He gets confused with the science fiction that Disney channel has, how could he possibly grasp the intricacies that a thousand year old "idea" based on an archaic book attempts to implant? He couldn't, so I choose to teach him that this is a celebration of something comprehendable, such as the return of Spring. Hence the bunnies and eggs, which by the way, harken back to Paegan traditions so all of you Bible Thumpers might want to forgo the cadbury bunny.
But the concept that the artist was bringing to light was not the concious choice of spring versus resurrection, but the one of laziness and acceptance of Hallmark ideals in christian groups. They drag the kiddies to mass, then stuff them with chocolate bunnies, but don't explain the concepts behind either. So young children see Easter as this oddly confusing blurp in the year that revolves around cadbury chocolates, bright pink eggs hidden by a rabbit and...uh...jesus. And then the day is gone and all that's left are jelly beans and a bewilderment as to what all the ruckus is over a particular Sunday.
So I find what Cosimo Cavallaro pretty understandable as a person of faith. You want your Christ and your friggin hallmark? Fine, have a chocolate Jesus. Oh, now you are protesting it...why?
"Because it's appalling"
Why?
Being anatomically correct to me is no more offensive than the graphic nature of that horrid snuff film Mel Gibson came out with.
And it being chocolate shouldn't be offensive, because we eat the body of christ every time we take the communion (hello, tasteless wafers).
So, why the uproar? Perhaps it's because it's too glaring a reminder of the hypocricy many people of faith are currently upholding. Especially when there are the ridicuulous explanations of Jesus loved bunnies and they had eggs at the Last Supper. *sigh* one, or the other, or explain both. I'm going with Spring, and when Anthony is older I'll explain the other side of "Holy Week" to him, and let him make his own choices on intangible things such as faith and belief. But right now he's three. And bunnies make sense.
Friday, February 23, 2007
To the Men in my Life
I do really appreciate you for being respectful. Why the sudden note of this?
Well...........let's just say mama's really lucky to have narrowly avoided commiting murder today. Although, technically it would have been impossible, because the awesome dispaly of backwards dickwadish male chauvenism was being done via cellphone, but, hey, the mental imagery I had of ripping a guy's tongue through his nostrils was probably arrestable.
Picture this, if you will, dear readers...a small, inconspicuous Radioshack, run by yours truely, a customer-proclaimed "firey lil' redhead whipcracker". My staff is well trained and knowledgeable, I myself am well trained and knowledgeable. You can't really work more than a few weeks without getting a crash course in basic electronic fundamentals dumped into your cranium. After almost two years of tenure, hell, I could re-wire just about anything (and yes, my nametag proclaims, right under "Store Manager", "two years of service").
In walks a frazzled looking gal holding a USB serial conversion box. These things are ARCHAIC. But hey, we still see 'em. She's also holding a rumpled printout from our webpage emblazzoned with a bridge rectifier. She hands me the paper and begs that I "figure out what he needs", implying some mystic husband. She starts stammering through an explanation, but I politely cut her short, as well, the damn product number is right there, and it's not exactly hard to find product 273-1771 in drawers that are marked 273 series HERE. Ok, sorry, sidetracked into geekiness there. But basicly it was like asking a dairy clerk for milk in the MILK section of a grocery store...standing under the MILK sign....then explaining that it's the stuff that comes from a cow.
After I quickly retreive her part, she has a "Much more complex issue" that she needs handled. See, the conversion box is self powered, meaning it has a little AC Adapter (wall worts is what they are comically referred to as). Finding these, however, is pretty much Radioshack 101. A box, like the one she has, is marked 18V, 200ma, and underneith is the socket marked with it's polarity, which will be in this case +--<-, or positive over negative polarity. Often times it's the opposite, negative over positive, but no worries, or adapters are designed to do both with simply switching the direction you place the adaptaplug (little prongie thing that goes into your device). I start to work, and realize that what I have is an 18v 1000ma, which could potentially damage the device, as well, it may have the right voltage (the V part), but skyrockets over the amperage (that's the ma, or milliamperage reading). Although I have an adaptaplug that fits, obviously, I am not about to fry this puppy, because she is holding it like a precious heirloom and apparently the Mystic He needs this component asap.
She instantly calls him, and is apparently scared out of her wits. I find this disconcerting, but say nothing.
I can now hear the Mystic He who will be now known as the High and Mighty Asswhole screaming at his poor wife via the phone. She actually stammers an apology that she is not as smart as he. My face has now become an expressionless mask as I am horrified that this sap of a gal is placating a beast I surely would have chased out of my store on a broomstick. He is apparently so sauve as to clack away at our website while berating her ignorance, and spits out a sku for a different AC adapter.
So...the one he has requested is a 12v, 800ma.
I know this will not work.
I try to say this.
I am greeted by hearing HMA sneer into the phone, "Don't listen to the idiot behind the counter, like SHE would know ANYTHING"
Wife is now staring at the aforementioned "Manager, two years of service" nametag, as if commiting it to memory in case she needs a defense.
He's now whining about the tagline that reads "Includes one adaptaplug at no extra cost". See, we keep those seperate and just throw 'em in once we match up the size, because there are dozens of sizes for different devices. We note them by a letter for convenient reference, as in A B C, etc. This one is an M.
I'm holding said M tip, as I've already fitted it.
He's now click happy, and has read that there is a multipack of adaptaplugs that has 8 for those who want to use multiple devices on one wallwort. He demands this is the one she request, despite the fact that I am trying to explain to her the multipack is not part of the freebie deal.
I hold the tip up to her face, plug the tip into the device, and as enlightenment dawns she explains that the Nice Lady found the right tip already, and is including that one.
She asks me to plug in the device.
I explain that the adapter HMA has requested is not strong enough to power the device, and therefor nothing will happen.
She stares blankly at me, I can hear him cursing, so I take a deep breath, switch the polarity to the correct direction (because, kiddies, if you put the tip on in the wrong direction of polarity to your device, you will hear a pop, feel a burn, and smell smoke. It's called "Asshole go Boom"), and plug it in.
Hey, guess what, nothing happens.
He now starts screaming at her that she has fried the unit because she plugged in the wrong polarity.
She is practically in tears, sniffing the device for the electrical fire smell he is describing that she must surely have caused.
*sigh*
She insists on making the purchase, now apparently terrified and mumbling that she just "doesn't have his brains, adn doesn't know about these things".
Swallowing the words on the tip of my tongue in regards to her enabling a beast of a most assuredly abueive dickwad backwater sonofabitch chauvenistic pig who should choke on his budweiser...
I ring her up...
Smile....
Explain how to return said product (because it will be coming back, since HMA dipshit really should die and requested the wrong voltage)...
and watch her walk out the door.
I then promptly went to smoke a cigarette, call my boyfriend, and say to him, while uttering in my heart to all of you guys:
Well...........let's just say mama's really lucky to have narrowly avoided commiting murder today. Although, technically it would have been impossible, because the awesome dispaly of backwards dickwadish male chauvenism was being done via cellphone, but, hey, the mental imagery I had of ripping a guy's tongue through his nostrils was probably arrestable.
Picture this, if you will, dear readers...a small, inconspicuous Radioshack, run by yours truely, a customer-proclaimed "firey lil' redhead whipcracker". My staff is well trained and knowledgeable, I myself am well trained and knowledgeable. You can't really work more than a few weeks without getting a crash course in basic electronic fundamentals dumped into your cranium. After almost two years of tenure, hell, I could re-wire just about anything (and yes, my nametag proclaims, right under "Store Manager", "two years of service").
In walks a frazzled looking gal holding a USB serial conversion box. These things are ARCHAIC. But hey, we still see 'em. She's also holding a rumpled printout from our webpage emblazzoned with a bridge rectifier. She hands me the paper and begs that I "figure out what he needs", implying some mystic husband. She starts stammering through an explanation, but I politely cut her short, as well, the damn product number is right there, and it's not exactly hard to find product 273-1771 in drawers that are marked 273 series HERE. Ok, sorry, sidetracked into geekiness there. But basicly it was like asking a dairy clerk for milk in the MILK section of a grocery store...standing under the MILK sign....then explaining that it's the stuff that comes from a cow.
After I quickly retreive her part, she has a "Much more complex issue" that she needs handled. See, the conversion box is self powered, meaning it has a little AC Adapter (wall worts is what they are comically referred to as). Finding these, however, is pretty much Radioshack 101. A box, like the one she has, is marked 18V, 200ma, and underneith is the socket marked with it's polarity, which will be in this case +--<-, or positive over negative polarity. Often times it's the opposite, negative over positive, but no worries, or adapters are designed to do both with simply switching the direction you place the adaptaplug (little prongie thing that goes into your device). I start to work, and realize that what I have is an 18v 1000ma, which could potentially damage the device, as well, it may have the right voltage (the V part), but skyrockets over the amperage (that's the ma, or milliamperage reading). Although I have an adaptaplug that fits, obviously, I am not about to fry this puppy, because she is holding it like a precious heirloom and apparently the Mystic He needs this component asap.
She instantly calls him, and is apparently scared out of her wits. I find this disconcerting, but say nothing.
I can now hear the Mystic He who will be now known as the High and Mighty Asswhole screaming at his poor wife via the phone. She actually stammers an apology that she is not as smart as he. My face has now become an expressionless mask as I am horrified that this sap of a gal is placating a beast I surely would have chased out of my store on a broomstick. He is apparently so sauve as to clack away at our website while berating her ignorance, and spits out a sku for a different AC adapter.
So...the one he has requested is a 12v, 800ma.
I know this will not work.
I try to say this.
I am greeted by hearing HMA sneer into the phone, "Don't listen to the idiot behind the counter, like SHE would know ANYTHING"
Wife is now staring at the aforementioned "Manager, two years of service" nametag, as if commiting it to memory in case she needs a defense.
He's now whining about the tagline that reads "Includes one adaptaplug at no extra cost". See, we keep those seperate and just throw 'em in once we match up the size, because there are dozens of sizes for different devices. We note them by a letter for convenient reference, as in A B C, etc. This one is an M.
I'm holding said M tip, as I've already fitted it.
He's now click happy, and has read that there is a multipack of adaptaplugs that has 8 for those who want to use multiple devices on one wallwort. He demands this is the one she request, despite the fact that I am trying to explain to her the multipack is not part of the freebie deal.
I hold the tip up to her face, plug the tip into the device, and as enlightenment dawns she explains that the Nice Lady found the right tip already, and is including that one.
She asks me to plug in the device.
I explain that the adapter HMA has requested is not strong enough to power the device, and therefor nothing will happen.
She stares blankly at me, I can hear him cursing, so I take a deep breath, switch the polarity to the correct direction (because, kiddies, if you put the tip on in the wrong direction of polarity to your device, you will hear a pop, feel a burn, and smell smoke. It's called "Asshole go Boom"), and plug it in.
Hey, guess what, nothing happens.
He now starts screaming at her that she has fried the unit because she plugged in the wrong polarity.
She is practically in tears, sniffing the device for the electrical fire smell he is describing that she must surely have caused.
*sigh*
She insists on making the purchase, now apparently terrified and mumbling that she just "doesn't have his brains, adn doesn't know about these things".
Swallowing the words on the tip of my tongue in regards to her enabling a beast of a most assuredly abueive dickwad backwater sonofabitch chauvenistic pig who should choke on his budweiser...
I ring her up...
Smile....
Explain how to return said product (because it will be coming back, since HMA dipshit really should die and requested the wrong voltage)...
and watch her walk out the door.
I then promptly went to smoke a cigarette, call my boyfriend, and say to him, while uttering in my heart to all of you guys:
"I appreciate you for respecting my intelligence as a woman"
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Livin', Lovin', Learnin'
Well, it has been a looooooooooooooong time since I've sat down and written anything meaningful in here. Is anyone even still reading?
I've pretty much just been riding the tides of life of late, and boy has it been one hell of a journey. I suppose this is what makes up the spice of life, but it's damn tiring living the one that I do. See, in case I haven't made it abundantly clear, I have an extremely FULL life. I work six days a week, and each of those days starts at 5:30 in the morning. I wake, start the coffee, rush myself into getting ready and most of the week, hurry to get the wee one ready at the same time. After begging him to finish his 'nana, we scamper off to the bus for an hour plus commute full of wriggling, whining, and general fuss making because apparently being three and a half and having to ride a boring ol' commuter bus just AIN'T happenin. Granted, I've been able to master a few tricks to ply complacency out of Sir Stubborn, like timing a thingie of his favourite yogurt for the switch in busses midway during our commute, and having him recite every colour of ever ad on the ceiling. Sometimes it works, othertimes I end up climbing off the bus at our stop with him screaming in my arms and every other commuter on there cursing my existence. The sitter picks him up at the coffee shop next to my work, and I get through my entire day complete with checking my now drasticly reduced paycheck (thanks, corporate fuckers!), having no time for lunch, only two staff members worth a shit, and then scrambling to meet the sitter at 6, climb on the bus, and drag him home (that commute is even worse. tired baby + long commute + crabby co-passengers = my own private hell). We have just enough time when I walk in the door to play the I Don't Want THAT For Dinner game, pop kiddo into a bath for Splashfest, and then curl up into bed with him to read the same damn Curious George book over and over and over again. I get the remaining two hours of my day to snuggle into Scott, maybe watch TV or whine until he lets me take over the TV to whack away at whatever video game suits my fancy. Since he bought me a crazy amount for Christmas, I got options. It rocks. I love my boyfriend!
So here's the kicker...that's only three days a week. The other three of my work days are pretty terrifying. On Thursdays I go through the usual routine except I get to play roulette with hoping that the ex dragged his ass out of bed to meet me at our busstop for a baby exchange. If he misses the first bus, I have exactly one half hour to blow up his phone and yell him onto the next one so I'm only moderately late. After the 7:02 bus goes, I am forced to take a cab, a la last Thursday. Remember that trip to the hospital I took in Sept? That shit is setting me back 2,500$. Mama can't afford a fucking $30 cab ride right now because her sorry ass ex can't drag his carcass out of bed to snag custody for a whopping day and a half.
IF all goes well I get to snag an hour of "me time" on the bus giddily playing with the DSLite afformentioned wonderboyfriend bestowed upon me for christmas (I am soooooooo incredibly spoiled, seriously!!!). I scared some guy the other day because he realized that whilst happily stylussing my critter around a cutesypoo town on Animal Crossing, I was nodding my head to Icon of Coil. Apparently the dichotomy of this broke something in the poor man's head. Now, because I am "only" working a nine hour day during the four working days I have my son, I get to spend the other two working eleven hour shifts. See, my paycheck got this nice big kick in the nads, and as a side dish, my hours got increased, too. I was originally paid 2,200 a month based on some fantasy 45 hour work week as a salaried individual. I'm now paid 1,500 as an HOURLY employee based on a 51 hour worok week (since that 1,500 is including overtime, how fucking nice) with no monthly bonus. Oh, to make up for it they rebestowed our SPIFFs. Well, teh vendor provided ones at least. It couldn't possibly come from the company who makes a fortune fucking us over...
So, the light at the end of this long, frustrating, time consuming and incredibly thankless tunnel is that I get that magic one day off a week, and I do live it up. I sleep in as much as Anthony lets me, and spend the morning snuggling with that precious little man on the couch. I happily endure Handy Manny and Sesame Street and Johny and the Sprites so I can inhale babyhair and feel little hands curl around mine. He has this ridiculous sweet habit if he's sitting on my lap, he'll reach a hand around to my cheek, pat it and mumble "Love you, mommy"...just because. While he takes his nap Scott and I lounge on the couch and enjoy a cup of coffee and talk about our random ideas for our future. We'd like to move to a bigger place, one with a yard and a studio space for me to paint again. I really haven't since I moved in here, both from lack of time and space. I hop onto the computer on a rare occassion to check the job listings, because quite frankly, I can't give my life to a company like this when they shit on us as badly as they just did. The paycuts were brutal, and I got passed over for a store closer to my home and would've taken a lesser cut in pay for a fucking rookie just because she belonged to a damn clique of kissasses. I loved the Shack dearly, but apparently it could give two shits less about the people working there, and that's a company philosophy I can no longer support. Especially because being a Single Mother is apparently the fucking mark of death in this workplace. I long for the simplistic nine to five I hear so often spoke of by my friends in the normal, non-retail world. I yearn for health benefits that don't cost $200 a month just to minimally cover my son and I.
So, I suck at keeping touch with my friends, hardly ever venture on line to commune with my homies, and yeah...don't have much time for anything that resembles normalcy. Maybe when I was younger this level of hectic was do-able, with not anymore. But I'm makin' it work as best I can, loving my family as much as humanly possible, and learning the hard way that being a single parent in this world sucks and takes the effort of everyone around you just to work. Thank god I have amazing people in my life who can cheer me on, though.
I love you guys.
Keep wavin' those pom poms.
I've pretty much just been riding the tides of life of late, and boy has it been one hell of a journey. I suppose this is what makes up the spice of life, but it's damn tiring living the one that I do. See, in case I haven't made it abundantly clear, I have an extremely FULL life. I work six days a week, and each of those days starts at 5:30 in the morning. I wake, start the coffee, rush myself into getting ready and most of the week, hurry to get the wee one ready at the same time. After begging him to finish his 'nana, we scamper off to the bus for an hour plus commute full of wriggling, whining, and general fuss making because apparently being three and a half and having to ride a boring ol' commuter bus just AIN'T happenin. Granted, I've been able to master a few tricks to ply complacency out of Sir Stubborn, like timing a thingie of his favourite yogurt for the switch in busses midway during our commute, and having him recite every colour of ever ad on the ceiling. Sometimes it works, othertimes I end up climbing off the bus at our stop with him screaming in my arms and every other commuter on there cursing my existence. The sitter picks him up at the coffee shop next to my work, and I get through my entire day complete with checking my now drasticly reduced paycheck (thanks, corporate fuckers!), having no time for lunch, only two staff members worth a shit, and then scrambling to meet the sitter at 6, climb on the bus, and drag him home (that commute is even worse. tired baby + long commute + crabby co-passengers = my own private hell). We have just enough time when I walk in the door to play the I Don't Want THAT For Dinner game, pop kiddo into a bath for Splashfest, and then curl up into bed with him to read the same damn Curious George book over and over and over again. I get the remaining two hours of my day to snuggle into Scott, maybe watch TV or whine until he lets me take over the TV to whack away at whatever video game suits my fancy. Since he bought me a crazy amount for Christmas, I got options. It rocks. I love my boyfriend!
So here's the kicker...that's only three days a week. The other three of my work days are pretty terrifying. On Thursdays I go through the usual routine except I get to play roulette with hoping that the ex dragged his ass out of bed to meet me at our busstop for a baby exchange. If he misses the first bus, I have exactly one half hour to blow up his phone and yell him onto the next one so I'm only moderately late. After the 7:02 bus goes, I am forced to take a cab, a la last Thursday. Remember that trip to the hospital I took in Sept? That shit is setting me back 2,500$. Mama can't afford a fucking $30 cab ride right now because her sorry ass ex can't drag his carcass out of bed to snag custody for a whopping day and a half.
IF all goes well I get to snag an hour of "me time" on the bus giddily playing with the DSLite afformentioned wonderboyfriend bestowed upon me for christmas (I am soooooooo incredibly spoiled, seriously!!!). I scared some guy the other day because he realized that whilst happily stylussing my critter around a cutesypoo town on Animal Crossing, I was nodding my head to Icon of Coil. Apparently the dichotomy of this broke something in the poor man's head. Now, because I am "only" working a nine hour day during the four working days I have my son, I get to spend the other two working eleven hour shifts. See, my paycheck got this nice big kick in the nads, and as a side dish, my hours got increased, too. I was originally paid 2,200 a month based on some fantasy 45 hour work week as a salaried individual. I'm now paid 1,500 as an HOURLY employee based on a 51 hour worok week (since that 1,500 is including overtime, how fucking nice) with no monthly bonus. Oh, to make up for it they rebestowed our SPIFFs. Well, teh vendor provided ones at least. It couldn't possibly come from the company who makes a fortune fucking us over...
So, the light at the end of this long, frustrating, time consuming and incredibly thankless tunnel is that I get that magic one day off a week, and I do live it up. I sleep in as much as Anthony lets me, and spend the morning snuggling with that precious little man on the couch. I happily endure Handy Manny and Sesame Street and Johny and the Sprites so I can inhale babyhair and feel little hands curl around mine. He has this ridiculous sweet habit if he's sitting on my lap, he'll reach a hand around to my cheek, pat it and mumble "Love you, mommy"...just because. While he takes his nap Scott and I lounge on the couch and enjoy a cup of coffee and talk about our random ideas for our future. We'd like to move to a bigger place, one with a yard and a studio space for me to paint again. I really haven't since I moved in here, both from lack of time and space. I hop onto the computer on a rare occassion to check the job listings, because quite frankly, I can't give my life to a company like this when they shit on us as badly as they just did. The paycuts were brutal, and I got passed over for a store closer to my home and would've taken a lesser cut in pay for a fucking rookie just because she belonged to a damn clique of kissasses. I loved the Shack dearly, but apparently it could give two shits less about the people working there, and that's a company philosophy I can no longer support. Especially because being a Single Mother is apparently the fucking mark of death in this workplace. I long for the simplistic nine to five I hear so often spoke of by my friends in the normal, non-retail world. I yearn for health benefits that don't cost $200 a month just to minimally cover my son and I.
So, I suck at keeping touch with my friends, hardly ever venture on line to commune with my homies, and yeah...don't have much time for anything that resembles normalcy. Maybe when I was younger this level of hectic was do-able, with not anymore. But I'm makin' it work as best I can, loving my family as much as humanly possible, and learning the hard way that being a single parent in this world sucks and takes the effort of everyone around you just to work. Thank god I have amazing people in my life who can cheer me on, though.
I love you guys.
Keep wavin' those pom poms.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Crawling up from the depths
God god It's been a while! I can't even really type much right now, as I am in the process of getting ready to leave for another day of work. The holiday season saw me at that damn store more than at home or even asleep. I swear it felt like I lived there. I'm still putting in a lot of hours, not really sure when I'll see a decrease on that...well, we'll see on the 23rd (more after that, expect a diatribe of epic proportions, kids).
Scott and I are wonderful. I feel the need I should say that for those weho know my oh so speckled history of dating, and that silence from me tends to be bad news. But in this case, it's not! It's just that we have precious few moments together, and we spend them curled up in eachothers arms enjoying our closeness.
Divorce is also almost done, more on that in a seperate diatribe, of course. God I'm dissapointing!
I just wanted to put down a few words, let everyone know I hadn't DIED, and will be on soon for a few much needed updates. You guys will be interested in the new developments of The Hood. Some good, some bad, some only Mama could have. Love you guys, happy new year!
Scott and I are wonderful. I feel the need I should say that for those weho know my oh so speckled history of dating, and that silence from me tends to be bad news. But in this case, it's not! It's just that we have precious few moments together, and we spend them curled up in eachothers arms enjoying our closeness.
Divorce is also almost done, more on that in a seperate diatribe, of course. God I'm dissapointing!
I just wanted to put down a few words, let everyone know I hadn't DIED, and will be on soon for a few much needed updates. You guys will be interested in the new developments of The Hood. Some good, some bad, some only Mama could have. Love you guys, happy new year!
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