Blech... Work

Normally, I enjoy my job. But I had Tuesday and Wednesday off (although I had to take a conference call on Tuesday and went into work on Wednesday to handle an employee issue) and today I went to a meeting in Vermont. So I haven't been in my store for 3 days. I don't want to go back tomorrow.

The Object of My Affection tries to understand that I have a "real" job. He listens to me talk about my frustrations there as well as my successes and he's never bitched about the hours I work or the irregularity of those hours. But sometimes he doesn't get it. Like yesterday. It was my day off. They called me three times, once during Alias which is like sancrosanct time for me. I don't answer the phone during Alias for anyone, not Baby Sis, not Eva, not my parents, not even Rock Starr if he doesn't happen to be sitting next to me watching it (when you only watch one show a week, you get pretty possessive over that time). So last night when the phone rang during Alias, I answered the phone. One of the managers had locked her store keys in the management office and needed me to come unlock the door. I couldn't really be irritated because I had done the same thing two weeks before. And I live the closest to the store. So I popped in a tape, went to the store, came back a half an hour later, and tried to catch up on the show. And Omar gave me a little grief.

"I don't know why they call you all the time. Aren't they competent? That's the second time today you went into work and it's your day off."

"Look," I told him, "this time I had to go in because she needed her keys. I didn't have to go in earlier this afternoon, but I did because I needed to talk to the DM face to face about the Moron and I didn't know when I was going to get that chance again."

"You have a meeting with the DM tomorrow."

"To talk about other stuff. Not the moron. And all store managers will be at the meeting so there's no one on one time."

"Hmph."

When I first went into retail full-time, my parents didn't get that I did more than stand on a sales floor and hawk things to people (after two years and many conversations, they get it now). They figured I just sold products and that was it. I don't; I manage a staff that ranges between forty-five and one hundred people depending on the time of year, I keep track of my store's business results to figure out trends and traffic patterns, I'm accountable to people on a corporate level (and it's a major coroporation) when my store doesn't perform. I "own" a $7.5 million store and I have to keep it running. Granted, I do that with three other managers, but these last seven weeks I've done it mostly on my own because my store manager has taken a leave of absence for personal reasons. It's really taught me what I want to do for a living, which is have my own store. I'm good at running that business. Much better than I ever thought I was. And I thought to myself a couple days ago, that even though I'm really excited my boss is coming back, I'm kind of sad I have to give up some of my responsibility.

But not tonight. Tonight I want to be lazy and sleep in tomorrow and not have to deal with Moron or the BIG VISIT coming up on Wednesday or any of the petty, mundane shit that goes on amongst a staff of mostly college aged females (sometimes I hate girls. Talk about bitchy. It's like perpetual PMS in my store sometimes). Tonight I want to snuggle with Omar when he gets home from the library (did I mention my boy's wicked smart and getting and MBA??) and watch what he wants to watch (usually comedy central) and listen to that nasty little snicker he sometimes makes when he's laughing at something that he knows is mean. Work? I'll deal with it tomorrow.

The Power of IM

As I write this, I am IM'ing with Baby Sis. Lula Bo and I have a weird IM relationship. It begins, generally, with one of us saying something rude to the other one to get the other's attention. Then there is a general discussion of who watched what on t.v. or DVD recently, with a thorough analysis of exactly how hot Michael Vartan really is (and he's really, really fucking hot). Then it degenerates into what basically amounts to an I know you are but what I am dialogue.

I kind of enjoy these childish exchanges.

The problem is that I don't get to really spend a lot of time with my sister, which is unfortunate because she's an interesting if slightly strange in a really good way person. I always tell people that even if we weren't related I'd want to be friends with Lula. We get along pretty well, as long as we're not together in an enclosed space (say, like the house we grew up in or a vehicle) for extended periods of time longer than ten hours. It's the same thing with my parents, though, too. Longer than sixteen hours with them makes me twitch. Is that a bad thing?

Anyway, my sister and I are at that stage of IMing where we're verging on silly incivility. Which is kind of fun. It's fun to say outrageous things to her and see how irritated she gets. In some ways, that will never get old. I'll be eighty and she'll be seventy-seven and I'll still try to get a rise out of her. It's generally an enjoyable experience. If we were in person and having these conversations, she'd say, "Luuuuceeeeee," in this really grossed out, exasperated tone of voice that would make me cackle with glee and keep trying to irritate her. But she giggles usually at some point, so I know she's just trying not to laugh. So that's cool. A day you can make your little sister laugh, especially if she's not having a good day, is a day well spent.

Mmm... Chocolate

I am addicted to the Food Network. I love it. I think it's one of the single best inventions television executives have ever come up with it. Tyler Florence, I live for reasons to find terrible ways to cook so I can Food 911 you. Sandra Lee, you're annoying, but you have some not so bad recipes. Southern Lady who calls oil OyAL, your food is too fattening for me, but I find you amusing. Rachael Ray is a goddess and I worship at her feet. I actually make her recipes. Rock Starr has a crush on Giada DeLaurentiis and will actually willingly watch her show and eat what she makes. I love the Food Network. I love to spend Saturday and Sunday mornings watching In the Kitchen Cooking School. And Chocolate with Jacques Torres? Holy Crap, I'd weigh five hundred pounds if I ate what that man made.

Jacques Torres used to have this show on PBS called The Dessert Circus. He used to get audience members over to his counter to help him out or he'd throw chocolate at them randomly during the show. I remember my mom and sister and I would occasionally watch this show on Saturday mornings when no one was rushing around to be anywhere. Some of the stuff he made... Mmmm, chocolate.

So today, I decided to actually cook for the Object of My Affection for once. Most people find it hilarious that Rock Starr does, like, eighty percent of the cooking in the house. I like to cook intricate things with lots of spices and flavors. I like to cook with pasta or with Mexican food or things that require more than one skillet. Omar doesn't. And he doesn't always like to eat that stuff either. So if it's a choice between being forced to eat chicken with scallions and artichoke hearts over fusilli pasta or cooking it himself so that the chicken is simply baked and has a side of veggies, he'll cook it himself so he can have that baked chicken with veggies.

Anyway, I digress. I'm cooking for Omar. So I decided to start, I'll make cookies. I am a total failure as a cookie maker. I bought Tollhouse premade cookies and slapped into the oven for seventeen minutes. I made Omar store bought cookies. I feel okay with this failure, but it causes me some worry about later on in life. My mom didn't spend all her free time in the kitchen baking, but I remember quite a few Sundays where she made my dad different batches of different kids of cookies or a pie or something that required not just a skill set for baking, but actual affection for both the process and the people she was laboring for. Don't get me wrong, we had Oreos and Chips Ahoy in the house on a regular basis, but if my mom was going to make cookies, she made cookies. Not even her Christmas cookies had elements of store boughtness. None of this Pilsbury or Tollhouse premade crap. She made her cookies by hand and her pie crusts. Until she started conning Baby Sis into making biscotti, but that's a whole other thing. ("Baby Sis, can you make some Daddy some biscotti? He really loved it the last time you made it and I've got too much work to make some. Maybe Lucy will help you." Fat chance Lucy will help you, kid. She's too busy ironing Daddy's shirts because Mom has too much school work.)

Anyway, even my super busy always had too much school work to do Mom made homemade cookies. It's my day off and I don't bring work home and yet I made premade cookies. I'm okay with that decision, but I hope five, six years down the road I remember this as my little blue or green eyed moppet looks at me and says, "Mommy, can we make cookies?" Will my first instinct be to reach into the fridge and grab that roll of refrigerated dough from the grocery store or to grab the flour from the freezer (I do not know why Omar insists on keeping the flour in the freezer, but it does save counter space in a small kitchen) and start looking for brown sugar in the cabinets?

She's What???

Britney Spears has officially mated.

Yuck.

In some ways, Britney is very sad (as in pathetic sad). She doesn't realize that her target audience is still preteen girls. Or, maybe she does realize it and doesn't care and just dresses the way she does and behaves the way she does because she is, in fact, sad. She married a guy who cares more about her money than he does about her or his ex girlfriend and their two children. And now he's bringing a third into the world.

Yuck.

I know, I know. Why does a twenty-seven year old, reasonably well-educated, employed, intelligent woman give a rat's ass about Britney Spears? I don't have an accurate answer for that. Something about celebrity fascinates me. It fascinates all of us. Look at any newsstand and the entertainment magazines outsell the real news ones. Check the web, and how many sites are devoted to t.v., actors, actresses, films, music, singers, athletes. We live and die by what some famous person did last week or who she slept with.

I've always wondered what that would be like, to be famous. Can you imagine going through something as painful as a divorce and having the whole world watch? Or doing something as personal and intimate as getting married and have helicopters fly over the chuch? I can't. The money part of things would be fabulous, but what about the rest of that crap? Who would willingly want that?

Maybe that's why they all demand such high salaries. Their personal lives no longer belong to them; why shouldn't they be compensated for that loss? But don't they go into fame knowing that they lose all anonymity? Why should they be compensated for wanting to be famous when my parents who are school teachers can't even get compensated for their kids' college educations?

I look at the money those people make and I think of all the things my family could have done with even a small fraction of that money. My mom and dad could have taken a lot more vacations with their family. My sister and I wouldn't have been saddled with so much debt when we left school that moving out of the house seemed like an impossible dream. I wouldn't have had to work two jobs, sixty-five hours a week, seven days a week for two and a half years. My sister could have had much better medical care than she got and than what she's getting when she's sick. My dad could get his PhD and not have to worry about paying for it. They wouldn't have to have that mortgage anymore. I could pay for The Wedding.

I know people say well, your parents made those choices and too bad for them. But what other choices did they have? They studied to be teachers; in their own way, they have made an impact on the world that Britney Spears and Brad Pitt could never, ever make. Why is their job so much more important than what my mom and dad do? For that matter, why is mine? I make more than most starting teachers.

Anyway, Britney Spears is all knocked up and the press needs to cover every detail.

Yuck.

What Is It About People?

Tonight the Object of My Affection and I went to see Sin City. A couple weeks ago, we saw Hostage. Both times we went to the same theater. (Both were decent; we liked Sin City better and Clive Owen is the hottest man alive, let me tell you.)

The experience, though, was different and the same both times. In both instances, we went on a weekend night, Friday for Hostage, Sunday for Sin City. In both instances, there were not enough people selling tickets. On the Friday night adventure, there was one ticket seller at each counter and three counters with space for two ticket sellers. So two ticket sellers on what is arguably one of the busier nights for people to go to the theater. They finally opened the third counter with one person behind it, so Rock Starr and I got out of the line we were in (almost at the end of the very, very long line) and went to the new counter. Same thing tonight. One ticket seller, a very, very long line. So Omar asked me, as a manager, what my customers would say if there were forty people in line and one cashier.

They'd ask my district manager to fire me. It's a long line, people don't always get there in plenty of time for their film (like us, since the show started at 7:10 and I didn't get home until five of seven), and they hate to miss the start.

Then we get to the refreshment counter. The wait here was less, but the Sunday adventure was not nearly as satisfying as the Friday adventure. Friday's cashier was pleasant, sweet, and had a sense of humor about how busy it was. She screwed up our order, but was so apologetic and nice that we didn't even get irritated (and trust me, I get irritated at people who work in customer service very easily because I know what they should be doing versus what they are). Tonight, the kid (a different one) was surly, rude, and ungracious. I realize he's getting paid seven bucks an hour to sling popcorn to people, but he can at least smile at someone when that someone says have a good night to them.

The movies themselves were fine, it was the fellow filmgoers who made me go "What is it with People?"

Both movies are super violent. Hi, it's a Bruce Willis movie and he doesn't do stuff like Moonlighting anymore. Don't bring your kids! And yet, the woman behind us at Hostage had at least three kids under the age of thirteen with her, all of them girls who were between seven and eleven. There's a scene with a bong in it and one of the girls asked her mother what that was. The mother's explanation? "It's drug paraphanalia for marijuana." I'm all for being honest with your kids, but Jesus there's a time and a place for those explanations and the movie theater isn't it! There's some pretty disturbing things in that movie: lots of blood, possible rape, suicide and immolation. And these little girls are sitting behind me watching the whole thing! I had a hard time enjoying the movie knowing these kids were sitting behind me. After the movie was over, she herded her kids into whatever tragic tween girl Disney flick was playing that night. Lady, if you went to see a movie and your kids want to see a different one, just send them into the theater they want to see and go see the grownup movies by yourself or with the sixteen year old son who's with you who doesn't want to see Ice Princess (or how Buffy's little sister is kidding herself about her acting career).

So tonight, we're watching a pretty violent movie and as the end credits are rolling, this guy, his wife and their kid walk past us to get out of the theater. The kid is an eight or nine year old girl. I realize sitters are not as cheap as they were when I was a sitter. Twelve years ago, I charged $4 an hour to watch the kids on my street. These days the going rate is more than I pay my staff at my store. Are you so cheap you need to bring your child to a movie like that? Christ, you're going to pay even more later on for the therapy bills when the kid can't stop having nightmares!

People, violent R-rated movies where people's genitals get shot off and their bodies are set on fire and girls are almost raped are not appropriate places to bring your prepubescent daughters (or sons for that matter; it just so happened that in both instances these kids were girls). Get a grip!

Thank you for not being an asshole, Love, Lucy

Finally! The Damn Date

Okay, so today I finally set my damn wedding date. On May 5, 2006, Omar and I officially become husband and wife.

I called the priest who's marrying us and for a few minutes I wondered if I was supposed to give him my condolences. What do you say to a religious person (like a priest) when the Pope dies? Hey, sorry for your loss? I don't know. I'm a lapsed Catholic so I have no idea how to relate to those people. And I seriously doubt he'd appreciate a priest sex abuse joke.