It was technically yesterday, but I haven’t been near my computer, so I’m letting you know, at 2:45 the next morning, May 28 is my one year Blog-a-versary!
I will make a more celebratory post when I have the time. In the meantime, please join me in a woot!
Stu: Hi! I need your help.
M: What’s up?
S: I need to make a decision. The job I really want was just offered to me, and I want it. I’m going to take it. But I told them I needed the weekend to think about it. My question is, should I call the interview I have on Tuesday and cancel it, or should I wait and go on the interview?
M: Do you WANT the job on Tuesday?
S: Not really.
M: Grab a coin.
S: You want me to trust major life decisions based on a coin?
M: Yes! Flip it, smack your hand over it, and don’t peek.
S: I dropped it.
M: Then STEP on it!
M: What do you hope it says? Heads is you go on the interview on Tuesday, tails you don’t.
S: I want it to say I don’t have to go to the interview on Tuesday, but…
M: Then don’t. And it doesn’t matter what the coin says. You don’t want to go. You know. You know! Take the job you want! They offered it!
S: But I told them I’d think about it for the weekend. Won’t it look weird to call them right back?
M: NO! They’ll be thrilled to know on Friday afternoon; they won’t have to worry all weekend, YOU won’t have to worry all weekend, and you can enjoy Memorial Day! Call now and call me back!
I’m waiting to hear from her now…
**UPDATE** She cancelled her second interview and is accepting the good job, which is paying her more than she thought they would. Go Stu!
While I’m ringing up customers and counting change, my manager will, very often, walk by me and stage whisper “Faster, faster!” into my ear in an attempt to rush me (usually with hand motions…HAND MOTIONS!). This is almost always when there is NO line of people waiting to order, and it bothers me. Not only does it distract me from carefully counting my change, but it is very disrespectful (not to mention completely unnecessary).
He’s done other rude things to me, too (like ordering me to do something instead of asking), but I can dismiss his rudeness as being “the way he is”, not maliciously rude. (Sort of like when Byron makes fun of me). He’s the type of person that has authority, and then attempts to gain respect on that title of authority alone, instead of earning it (people make fun of him behind his back, and I don’t think anyone respects him; for the record I think he’s a technically good manager, but hasn’t grasped the managing people part yet).
I’m not sure how to handle people like this. So far I’ve dealt with it by giving him The Look of Death, and when he barked an order at me yesterday, I very pointedly told him “you can ask me politely!” I don’t know if I should say anything to him (about being rude to me specifically, not how he needs to earn people’s respect instead of expecting it automatically because of his job description. That’s one life lesson everyone needs to find out on their own). Any ideas, folks?
It was pouring rain yesterday when Stu and I began our quest. We took our time to get to the store; we stoped by Starbucks because I had forgotten what time I went to work today (noon shift…no getting up at 4:45 am! YES!) We went to the mall and got pretzles. We people watched while we ate them. Finally, we got to the beauty supply store. We took our time picking out the “Perfect Shade of Not Too Coppery Red” for her and came back to my house. I immediately put my pj pants on, because the bottoms of my regular pants are soaked. Being 5’4 in the rain sucks when you don’t hem your pants.
I’m opening all the packages and Stu picks up the tube and goes “does this say ‘Very Light Blonde’?”
It did. We almost dyed her blonde.
“Want to go back to the mall, Ber?” she asked. She smiled a Stusan smile at me.
I had to put a second pair of pants back on, and we went back to the mall.
After switching out the hair dye for something that wouldn’t make her look like RuPaul (remember him…er…her?) we got back. Again, I immeditely put on my pj pants. I really should get taller shoes.
I pulled out all the tubes again. We seemed to be missing something. I read the directions; we needed another tube of something to mix the first tube with (hair dying is like playing with a chemistry set). This mystery tube was sold separately.
She just went to CVS and got hair color (which is what we should have done in the first place!) Lesson learned.
It was fun! With all signs pointing to “don’t dye her hair”, I was a little worried about it, but it ended up turning out nice. I had never dyed anyone’s hair before, but I managed to keep it out of her eyes and didn’t do any major damage. She’s a foxy redhead, too!
I am disgraced.
Saturday morning I woke up with a “my god, what have i done!” feeling. My memory comes in pieces, but what I DO know is this: I layed passed out on the driveway. I threw up in my hair. I threw up in the bathtub. I had leaves in my hair from the driveway. I threw up on my shirt. I threw up on my pants. There’s a huge bruise on my leg. I didn’t make sence when I talked. I threw up on Susan. Some one threw me on the couch.
To everyone who dealt with me Friday, thanks! I will never drink again. Or, at least, not 7 shots of Jack.
I wanted to punch someone in the nose today.
I was at Starbucks behind the counter trying to figure out how to ring out a slightly unusual custom drink. The woman wanted decaf coffee, hot, over ice. (Whatever works!) No problem, but I wasn’t sure if there was a special way to ring it up (iced coffee is more expensive than regular coffee, and she wanted regular coffee over ice…but whatever), so I started asking the other baristas, and then we were discussing it. Her husband leans over the counter, gets in my face and yells, “WHY DON’T YOU JUST RING IT UP LIKE A REGULAR DECALF?! THEY DO IT ALL THE TIME!” He stormed off to get sugar.
I can deal with crabby people in the dental office. You’re in a dental office. You’re probably nervous and/or in pain. If you’re a pill to me, I can let it slide. Out for a latte with your wife? Save the drama for yo’ mama! It’s Starbucks. It’s coffee. Chill.
He came back and I looked him square in the eye and said “I’m new. I didn’t want to over charge you. I’m trying to do my job well. You don’t need to yell at me.” I said it firmly, but really politely.
Crickets. Patrons, other folks in line, my coworkers: dead silent. I finished my spiel with my best pissy look (and trust me, it’s pretty good!)
He huffed off, and his wife apologized and slinked after him. The other baristas gave me “mad props” for sticking up for myself. I felt good about speaking up and still being polite (even though “you mother-loving cocksucker!” was totally on the tip of my tongue). But I really wanted to punch him in the nose.
Best part of the day: one regular, Joe, came in while us folks behind the bar were discussing Broadway.
“You know,” he told us, “I used to sing.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Yeah, in Carnige hall!”
We were all very impressed, until he grinned and said “All the time, while I was sweeping the floors!”
We laughed, and he winked at me and Cami. We went to girly pieces, proving “The Wink” works from guys at any age.
Yesterday, I left the window to my car open and a bird flew into it and pooped on the center console. (Also, all over the drivers seat, and I leaned in it and smushed myself with gooey white bird shit. Blah.) I wonder if this means good luck for my car. It could use it. They say that if a bird poops on you, you’ll have good luck for the rest of the day, but I think that’s just something you say to someonone who is grossed out because they just got pooed on. Like when they tell brides it’s good luck to have rain on their wedding day. Or when a little kid is screaming and you tell him something nice will happen to him because his popsicle is fallen off of the stick and all over the sidewalk.
I worked my first morning shift at Starbucks. Five fucking thirty. I’m exhausted, and my brain is numb. It’s probably why I found the following so hilarious.
I went to the mall today. There’s an elevator, it’s glass, it’s in the middle of a huge opening with a gigantic fountain, and just a glance will tell you that obviously only goes between two floors. I got in at the top floor. I was joined by a couple of Junior Barbies. Blonde and freakishly skinny, they were housed in a cloud of, you guessed it!, “Baby Prostitute” smell. The “I’m too cool” attitude barely fit in the elevator.
I turned to them, smiled, and asked “Are you ladies going up or down?”
“Um, you can only go down in this elevator if you’re on this floor.” She rolled her over-eyelinered eyes at me. Neither of them said “duh”, but the sentiment was there.
“I know,” I told her. “It was a joke.”
They looked at me like I was insane.
At 23, I have, apparently, become the weird stranger in the mall your mother warned you about.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
This was my brother, who was walking with me down to the campground general store. In between gagging, spitting, and ALMOST puking, I got my message across: I had swallowed a bug. It flew in my mouth, and I crunched it between my teeth.
It was bitter.
I made a S’more later that night though, which MORE than made up for it.
I’m on allergy meds, and I have no energy to write more. Oh, except to say this: Mike, according to my tracker you are the most frequent visitor to my blog, BY FAR, and have hit 100 visits since I started keeping track. Congratulations; you’re obsessed with me.
Thanks, Matthew, for bringing this to my attention: PostSecret. It’s blog-rolled on my side bar, but I wanted to point it out to everyone.