Working in a grocery store is a prime people-watching opportunity. One of the most fascinating subjects has to be the mother of small children. There's so much variety there, and so many delicious ways for me to judge them, usually.
There's the mom who ignores her kids as they run all over the store touching things and climbing on my counter while I'm trying to bag. There's the mom who thinks her kid can do no wrong and completely ignores me so she can fuss over her little angel as I try to ask questions necessary to complete her grocery transaction. There's the mom who comes in with three dirty, maniac little kids and another on the way and pays for her organic junk food with food stamps. I want to punch that mom in the stomach and ask the government to give me a little of the money I just saved them. Seriously, I totally get falling on hard times, but that is when it's time to stop reproducing, Fertile Myrtle.
Then there are the moms who put all the other moms to shame. They have a couple kids in tow, but the kids are well-behaved, helpful, and quiet. On top of that, the kids are clean and dressed neatly AND the mom looks hot. How does that even happen? Every time I see a woman like this, I want to reach across the counter and heartily shake her hand. How does one manage to raise decent kids, clean them, dress them, and then make herself look not just presentable but enviably good-looking? I can barely even manage to get my eyeliner on straight before I leave the house, and all I have is an Andy to take care of (and he is actually completely self-sufficient - he only pretends to need me so I can have some self-esteem, because he's good like that).
On the subject of women with babies, I would really appreciate not having any more dreams about being pregnant. They are scary and unpleasant. Last night I had a very long, hilariously horrific dream about being pregnant. In the beginning, I had just realized I was pregnant and was apparently toying with the idea of getting the ol' coat hanger special so I didn't tell anyone about it. Then, all of a sudden, my belly just exploded in size and I became quite obviously pregnant but I kept going around in giant sweatshirts trying to hide it because I still wasn't sure if I was going to keep it. Then my alarm went off and I woke up with the WORST gas.
Congratulations, it's a fart.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
That old shower injury flaring up again...
I wasn't allowed to shower for the longest time. Unitl I was six or seven, I was made to take baths, which I detested. The bath water was never hot enough or deep enough. I believe this shower taboo stemmed from my mother's fear that I would fall in the shower.
I always found this to be completely ridiculous and unfounded. What kind of able-bodied person just falls in the shower for no reason? I'm not in there doing jumping jacks or practicing the alley cat. Why worry?
I'll tell you why you should worry. If you shave the way I do, please, learn from me.
Tuesday morning, I awoke to my unwelcome alarm clock at 5:50 am. I had been up past 11 the previous night baking bread, because I'm a marvelous wife [yes, I got off my 8 hour shift at 7:30 and came home to make bread. I'm probably better than you, but only at being a martyr/homemaker]. Thus, I was groggy and not fully awake when I stepped into the shower.
I proceeded to plod robotically through my shower routine. Shampoo. Face. Rinse. Condition. Wash. Shave. Everything was fine, albeit slow and foggy, until I got to 'shave'. Here is how I shave:
I do this for a few reasons. One - because I can. I'm freakishly flexible. Two - It's nice to get a good stretch in under that hot water. Loosens you up for the day. Three - If I don't have my contacts in yet, I can't even be sure it's my leg that I'm trying to shave. It might be just some flesh colored tube I found in the shower. In order to see what I'm doing so as to not lacerate myself or miss large swaths of stubble, I gotta bring the leg to my face. It usually works pretty well, but on this fateful day, my strategy failed me.
I guess I was stretching a little too hard, putting too much pressure on my back foot. All I know is that one moment, I was standing up, happily shaving my right shin. The next, I was in the most awkward, scary position I have experienced in a bathroom (except maybe the position where your face is on the toilet seat because if you lift your head you will vomit some more, but not lifting your face away from the toilet makes you want to vomit and it's just an awful, awful catch-22 that ultimately ends in more vomit no matter what course of action you choose). It looked something like this:
Oh GOD, you're probably thinking. Were you injured? Did you cut yourself? Bruised? Pull something? Maimed?
No. In fact, I just remembered today that it even happened. I guess I was so deliriously tired that I just dropped and stood back up before I even realized what I had done. I stood there for a second, utterly stunned, but once I established that I wasn't broken or bleeding, I carried on with my shower and completely forgot about it for two whole days.
Moral of the story: If you worry about something long enough, it will eventually happen.
I always found this to be completely ridiculous and unfounded. What kind of able-bodied person just falls in the shower for no reason? I'm not in there doing jumping jacks or practicing the alley cat. Why worry?
I'll tell you why you should worry. If you shave the way I do, please, learn from me.
Tuesday morning, I awoke to my unwelcome alarm clock at 5:50 am. I had been up past 11 the previous night baking bread, because I'm a marvelous wife [yes, I got off my 8 hour shift at 7:30 and came home to make bread. I'm probably better than you, but only at being a martyr/homemaker]. Thus, I was groggy and not fully awake when I stepped into the shower.
I proceeded to plod robotically through my shower routine. Shampoo. Face. Rinse. Condition. Wash. Shave. Everything was fine, albeit slow and foggy, until I got to 'shave'. Here is how I shave:
I do this for a few reasons. One - because I can. I'm freakishly flexible. Two - It's nice to get a good stretch in under that hot water. Loosens you up for the day. Three - If I don't have my contacts in yet, I can't even be sure it's my leg that I'm trying to shave. It might be just some flesh colored tube I found in the shower. In order to see what I'm doing so as to not lacerate myself or miss large swaths of stubble, I gotta bring the leg to my face. It usually works pretty well, but on this fateful day, my strategy failed me.
I guess I was stretching a little too hard, putting too much pressure on my back foot. All I know is that one moment, I was standing up, happily shaving my right shin. The next, I was in the most awkward, scary position I have experienced in a bathroom (except maybe the position where your face is on the toilet seat because if you lift your head you will vomit some more, but not lifting your face away from the toilet makes you want to vomit and it's just an awful, awful catch-22 that ultimately ends in more vomit no matter what course of action you choose). It looked something like this:
Oh GOD, you're probably thinking. Were you injured? Did you cut yourself? Bruised? Pull something? Maimed?
No. In fact, I just remembered today that it even happened. I guess I was so deliriously tired that I just dropped and stood back up before I even realized what I had done. I stood there for a second, utterly stunned, but once I established that I wasn't broken or bleeding, I carried on with my shower and completely forgot about it for two whole days.
Moral of the story: If you worry about something long enough, it will eventually happen.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Don't Get Too Excited
This is hardly a real post. But, if you like to live vicariously, you can get really excited with me. One week from today, we will step off the an airplane into a dingy, foul-smelling terminal at Philadelphia International Airport. We will be surrounded by people as apathetic and undesirous of small talk as I, people who might be asking their travel companions something like, "Jeet yet?" "Nah, 'jew?" "Nah, let's get hoagies." And it will be a thing of beauty. And then we will get in my mom's car, and she will drive us over the bridge, over the filthy Delaware River (a river that isn't dammed to hell and back for the sake of federally subsidized hydroelectric power, and that isn't teeming with any sort of life except the DNA traces on the dirty syringes) and I will roll down the window no matter the temperature so I can fill my lungs with that dank, polluted, sweet New Jersey air.
I cannot wait. So excited. My suitcase is already 80% packed, which is a strong indicator of how excited I am about a trip. If I'm totally stoked, I make my list of outfits weeks in advance. If I'm only moderately excited, I give myself 3-4 days, and pack a night or two ahead. But this time, I'm taking no chances. Also, I did a monster pile of laundry yesterday and don't want to do more before we leave, so I'm taking precautions against accidentally wearing anything I plan to take with me.
Leave the window unlocked for me, New Jersey, 'cause I'm sneaking back in.
I cannot wait. So excited. My suitcase is already 80% packed, which is a strong indicator of how excited I am about a trip. If I'm totally stoked, I make my list of outfits weeks in advance. If I'm only moderately excited, I give myself 3-4 days, and pack a night or two ahead. But this time, I'm taking no chances. Also, I did a monster pile of laundry yesterday and don't want to do more before we leave, so I'm taking precautions against accidentally wearing anything I plan to take with me.
Leave the window unlocked for me, New Jersey, 'cause I'm sneaking back in.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Sh*t My Customers Say
Wearing a name tag at work creates a gross imbalance of power that is certainly not in my favor. People who I have never seen in my life refer to me by name as if they know me. They get a little too familiar, and I don't like it. I would prefer to be largely anonymous in my subservience to others.
When a well-meaning older gentleman who happens to be a complete stranger says to me, "Hi Katie, how are you?" it feels more like he is saying, "Hi Katie, what size bra do you wear?" That might be an overreaction, but it feels like a violation in some way. I may be wearing a name tag, but the use of my name in the customer/employee context should be reserved for complaining about my service if I have failed in some way. I don't want to make pleasant small talk with you so that you feel good about being nice to "the help." I'm here to scan and bag your purchases and collect your payment, not to bolster your feelings of self-righteousness.
Some of these people might even be genuinely friendly and enjoy conversing with everyone they meet. That's great for them, but imagine how it makes me feel. Do I really need to discuss the weather with scores of people over the course of an eight hour shift? I suppose I should be grateful that the customers who want to chat far outweigh the scary malcontents who refuse to communicate beyond grunting one word answers to questions such as "paper or plastic," "debit or credit." However, I would take that over people who seem endlessly fascinated by the fact that it's cold, or that it's snowing, or that it's sunny. Or the people who want to know my life story, or who want to tell me that their sister's best friend's daughter's name is Katie.
Really, I just don't care. All I need or want is an opening hello and a closing thank you. Just basic politeness. I'm spending three minutes in your presence, performing a service for you for an hourly pittance. We don't have to be best friends for those three minutes, just stand there and be quiet so I don't accidentally charge you three times for the same item. But if I do, then you can feel free to use my name when you complain to the management.
Sometimes, people just go beyond anything annoying and enter the realm of WTF. The other day, something must have been tainting the water supply because people were acting all kinds of weird. First, a middle-aged man came through my line and asked me if I ever watch this British television show called Doc Martin. I told him that I couldn't afford TV, so no, I hadn't seen it. He proceeded to tell me how I look EXACTLY like the character named Louisa. EXACTLY. He was adamant. I'm surprised he didn't ask for my autograph, because he seemed to be a huge fan.
Naturally, I googled this Louisa when I got home. Life fail. This chick is played by a 40 year old actress, and she's kinda busted looking.
I mean, she's not ugly, but really? Not much of a compliment. At least he didn't say I looked like Steve Buscemi with boobs or something.
A short while later, a woman approached my counter and leaned forward with an ominous look on her face. "You have a cat, don't you?"
"Pardon me? Uh, yea, I do. I'm sorry, are you having an allergic reaction or something?"
"No, you have a cloak of invisibility. All cat owners have it."
"Huh?"
"I walked right past you a minute ago and didn't even see you. Then I saw you, and I knew you must have a cat because you were invisible."
So I guess Timothy Leary must be working for the water company these days because honestly, these people were tripping on some serious Kool-Aid. I didn't even know what to say to that, because I had become so accustomed to discussing exclusively weather-related topics that I forgot how to talk about deeper, metaphysical issues like invisibility vis a vis cat ownership.
Begin rant. Food stamps. Okay, I get falling on hard times and the cycle of poverty, but why are you buying gourmet imported cheese and artisan bread and effing YAK MEAT when you are so poor that the government has to buy it for you? I work for my damn money and I'm not running around like a gourmand or a Rockefeller. I'm also not pumping out children like my ovaries are a pre-recession assembly line. End rant.
I'm glad I'm getting all this off my chest now, because I am at that critical point where I get to stop caring entirely. Yesterday I put in my two weeks notice! I'm still not ready to reveal the details of my grand scheme but I am 97.5% certain that my master plan of making a triumphant return to New Jersey is going to succeed, and soon. I just have a few formalities with which to dispense in a couple weeks, and then I can hopefully reveal a glorious truth. Yay!
When a well-meaning older gentleman who happens to be a complete stranger says to me, "Hi Katie, how are you?" it feels more like he is saying, "Hi Katie, what size bra do you wear?" That might be an overreaction, but it feels like a violation in some way. I may be wearing a name tag, but the use of my name in the customer/employee context should be reserved for complaining about my service if I have failed in some way. I don't want to make pleasant small talk with you so that you feel good about being nice to "the help." I'm here to scan and bag your purchases and collect your payment, not to bolster your feelings of self-righteousness.
Some of these people might even be genuinely friendly and enjoy conversing with everyone they meet. That's great for them, but imagine how it makes me feel. Do I really need to discuss the weather with scores of people over the course of an eight hour shift? I suppose I should be grateful that the customers who want to chat far outweigh the scary malcontents who refuse to communicate beyond grunting one word answers to questions such as "paper or plastic," "debit or credit." However, I would take that over people who seem endlessly fascinated by the fact that it's cold, or that it's snowing, or that it's sunny. Or the people who want to know my life story, or who want to tell me that their sister's best friend's daughter's name is Katie.
Really, I just don't care. All I need or want is an opening hello and a closing thank you. Just basic politeness. I'm spending three minutes in your presence, performing a service for you for an hourly pittance. We don't have to be best friends for those three minutes, just stand there and be quiet so I don't accidentally charge you three times for the same item. But if I do, then you can feel free to use my name when you complain to the management.
Sometimes, people just go beyond anything annoying and enter the realm of WTF. The other day, something must have been tainting the water supply because people were acting all kinds of weird. First, a middle-aged man came through my line and asked me if I ever watch this British television show called Doc Martin. I told him that I couldn't afford TV, so no, I hadn't seen it. He proceeded to tell me how I look EXACTLY like the character named Louisa. EXACTLY. He was adamant. I'm surprised he didn't ask for my autograph, because he seemed to be a huge fan.
Naturally, I googled this Louisa when I got home. Life fail. This chick is played by a 40 year old actress, and she's kinda busted looking.
 |
| Louisa, played by actress Caroline Catz. Source: Wikipedia |
A short while later, a woman approached my counter and leaned forward with an ominous look on her face. "You have a cat, don't you?"
"Pardon me? Uh, yea, I do. I'm sorry, are you having an allergic reaction or something?"
"No, you have a cloak of invisibility. All cat owners have it."
"Huh?"
"I walked right past you a minute ago and didn't even see you. Then I saw you, and I knew you must have a cat because you were invisible."
So I guess Timothy Leary must be working for the water company these days because honestly, these people were tripping on some serious Kool-Aid. I didn't even know what to say to that, because I had become so accustomed to discussing exclusively weather-related topics that I forgot how to talk about deeper, metaphysical issues like invisibility vis a vis cat ownership.
Begin rant. Food stamps. Okay, I get falling on hard times and the cycle of poverty, but why are you buying gourmet imported cheese and artisan bread and effing YAK MEAT when you are so poor that the government has to buy it for you? I work for my damn money and I'm not running around like a gourmand or a Rockefeller. I'm also not pumping out children like my ovaries are a pre-recession assembly line. End rant.
I'm glad I'm getting all this off my chest now, because I am at that critical point where I get to stop caring entirely. Yesterday I put in my two weeks notice! I'm still not ready to reveal the details of my grand scheme but I am 97.5% certain that my master plan of making a triumphant return to New Jersey is going to succeed, and soon. I just have a few formalities with which to dispense in a couple weeks, and then I can hopefully reveal a glorious truth. Yay!
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Shalom?
Chanukah
I give up. A holiday so difficult to spell, it took eight nights of celebrating to get it right.
I'd like to wish a happiest of Chanukahs to my Jewish brothers and sisters. Spin a dreidel, eat some matzo, and light a candle on your menorah for this reluctant Gentile.
The warm, celebratory atmosphere that envelopes this season reminds me of a game my friends and I used to play during lunch (and after school, and in class, and whenever our attention wasn't being properly channeled into a more productive vein). We called it ghetto dreidel. If I recall, it was really just a version of bloody knuckles in which we were too weak or scared to actually make each other bleed very often. Someone would set a quarter spinning on a flat surface, and if it came near you you had to flick it to keep it spinning. If you failed, the spinner had the high privilege of slamming the edge of the quarter into your exposed knuckles. But we've all been in prison so I'm sure I did't really need to explain that part.
I don't know why we called it ghetto dreidel, as if implying that we were too poor for a dreidel (unless the point was that it was violent), because, seriously, we were substituting the real toy with money. Surely there must have been a cheaper and thus more ghetto alternative. Maybe a wayward button? A nickel? A rusty hubcap from the gutter? Jew fail.
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