Stupid Jerk or Brilliant Asshole?

I have a cat. And I absolutely love my cat. She is a wonderful companion and a great source of amusement. But sometimes I wonder if she's just so dumb that she comes across as mean or so brilliant that she's mean on purpose.

When I moved out of my mother's house after college, I was living with my then-boyfriend, who is tremendously allergic to cats, so my cat (Annabelle) really couldn't live with us. So she had been living with my mother in my mother's house. My mother would let Annabelle and the other cats go outside as they wished, so when I moved to my current apartment with Annabelle a year and a half ago, she had to adjust to being an indoor cat. So for the past year and a half, every single time I have come home, I've opened the apartment door, and Annabelle has gone running into the hallway. I throw my stuff inside and chase after her. Most of the time, she just rolls around on the floor in the hallway. Normally, this is only moderately annoying. Sometimes it's even funny. However, I share joint custody of my dog. When my dog is here, the cat not only runs into the hallway and rolls on the floor, but runs straight down the stairs. So I come home from working eight hours, the poor dog needs to go outside and pee, and the jerk cat is running around the building. So I frequently let her continue to run around while I run the dog outside, bring the dog back in, then the dog and I chase the cat around the building. I can't imagine what my neighbors think when they see this spectacle.

I knit. I'm not great at it, but I like it and I do it regularly. I always have a project going. Annabelle is absolutely certain that I took up knitting to provide her more toys. Every day, I leave for work and my apartment looks pretty good. Then I come home to find a yarn maze. I'm kind of upset right now. I just dicked around in Paint to make a shitty representation of the yarn maze, and now I can't figure out how to embed it. Blarg. Oh well. Basically, I come home and find yarn dragged around the apartment. I always thought "Oh, poor kitty. She's so bored, all she has to do all day is play with yarn." Well, one night, I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up in the middle of the night and watched this furry little jerk carefully pick up a ball of yarn in her mouth and trot off down the hall. A moment later, she came walking back down the hall, perfectly calm, with the end of the yarn in her mouth. I watched her walk into the kitchen, dragging the yarn behind her. I watched her walk through the kitchen, into the dining room area. She walked around the table. She walked through the dining room chairs. She walked under the table. I watched her deliberately tie up the kitchen table and chairs with this yarn. So the yarn maze I come home to is definitely one hundred percent intentional and by the cat's design.

My cat's name is Annabelle. As crazy cat ladies do with their cats, I have given her all sorts of silly nicknames. The obvious one, of course, was Anna Banana. The has been shortened to just Banana. Annabelle was six years old and had the name "Annabelle" for all six years before I started calling her Banana. Now she will not respond to "Annabelle." If I want my cat, I have to call "Banana!" if I want any response from her. And she's very responsive to "Banana!" Sometimes I'll be sitting on the couch in the living room and a sad commercial will make me want my cat. She'll be sitting in the bedroom window. I'll call "Banana!" and she'll come running and jump into my lap. That's cool. However, she'll also come running when the boyfriend is here and I ask if he'd like a banana from the kitchen. The worst part of this is when the cat runs outside and I have to chase her. I call out "Annabelle!" and she doesn't respond. But running through the hall of my apartment building at midnight, yelling "Banana!" gets her attention and makes her stop running down the stairs. So now whenever I speak of the cat to somebody who knows me, I just say "The Banana." My aunt and my mother came to visit the other day and I asked if they'd go to the pet store with me, so I could "pick up some treats for The Banana." I've never seen anybody look as confused as my aunt did then.

When The Banana decides I'm not giving her enough attention, she chews on my hair. I've started putting my hair up most of the time when I'm home. This isn't a deterrent for her. It was my weekend with the dog this past weekend. The Banana got jealous of him and climbed up on the back of the couch and proceeded to bite my head, trying to loosen some hair to chew on.

So, I love my cat. She cracks me up. I'm just not sure what to think of her intelligence level. I'm pretty sure she's just an absolutely brilliant asshole. And on that note, I'm going to go play with my cat.

Some Awesome Words/Phrases I've Heard This Week

I've been surrounded by some hilarious people this week and their phrasing for certain things is so brilliant, I wanted to share! So this entry is just a list of some funny shit I've heard lately.

"Chick-fil-Learn-How-to-Fucking-Spell-You-Homophobes"

"Well, that's a barrel of dicks. And not in the good way." (As spoken by a heterosexual male)

"Twat-waffle" (name calling)

"Fucktwit" (also name calling)

Thank you, hilarious people in my life. Keep it up, and I may have a weekly roundup of awesome.

Terminable Offense? I Don't Care!

I once had a job that involved working in an area with lots of caustic and toxic chemicals. Through various federal regulations regarding health and safety, it is a violation to have consumables in the area where we used these chemicals. The area is pretty clearly defined. Most of the store has off-white floor tiling. The "No Consumables Beyond This Point" area has black flooring. Shall I break this down further? Don't take anything meant to be put in your mouth onto the black flooring. No drinks, no food. Simple, yes? This means we cannot take consumable merchandise over that threshold, nor can we take personal food or beverage over that threshold.

I had been finding drinks back in the No-Food-or-Drinks area on occasion. Mistakes get made, so I just mentioned it to the folks in my department. "Hey, I don't think it's anybody in the department" (even though I fucking know it is) "but don't let anybody take their stuff back here." 

So, one day, my relief, who we'll call Andrew, came strolling in, a few minutes late, with an iced coffee. Now, I'm a caffeine addict. I like drinking things. And I don't like wasting money. So I would never tell somebody "Hey, throw out that delicious-looking beverage that you clearly just spent a nice little chunk of money on. No caffeine for you today." If somebody tucked a drink under their register, I would, and still do, turn a blind eye (assuming it's not alcoholic, of course). But I'm not going to ignore and allow things to happen that can levy a $25K fine. Oh, yes, folks, you read that right. Twenty-five thousand dollars for taking food or beverage into this area. So I said, "Hey, Andrew, don't take that back there."

"Whatever." And kept going.

"No, seriously. That's a huge OSHA violation. I don't care at all if you leave it by this register, but please don't take it back there."

"Meh."

"Seriously. If the health inspector were to walk in and see that, it would be a $25K fine. And as your friend, I'm telling you that I don't think our boss would let somebody keep their job after earning the store that type of fine. Or being found risking that type of fine."

"Yeah...I don't care."

So, you just flat-out told your supervisor you don't care if you violate health and safety policies, earn the store enormous fines, and/or get fired? Fucking seriously? Currently, I've been working a second job that I don't give half a shit about, while caring a lot about my current job. But I have also been seeking a better second job and recently found out that I am indeed being promoted. So I am successfully escaping from that job. I successfully escaped from the job I was working at during this story. As far as I know, this kid had not been searching for other jobs. And he's a kid. I have enough work history and enough good references that I could afford being fired one time. I was fired last summer. Less than a year later, I'm being promoted in my new job. He didn't have the history to be able to afford to get fired. He had had one job in the past, which he left on bad terms. He's not going to get any positive references from this job because his attitude was garbage. So let me put it this way: When you have no fucking prospects and are not eligible for unemployment, maybe you should care if you get fired.

Also, asshole, this isn't just a matter of you not doing your job, which you don't, and if it were my decision, your ass would be fired for that alone. You're putting the store in violation of federal policy. You are doing things that could get the store shut down. You don't care if you work? You don't care if you ruin any chance you have of working again? You want your girlfriend to support you forever? Fine. It's your choice to be a worthless piece of shit. But you're *way* out of line doing things that can cause everybody you work with to lose their jobs. Yeah, people make mistakes. I can see "Oh, no, I didn't know that was a huge fine. Let me move this drink." But no. "I don't care if I get fired and take everyone down with me."

And yes, kids, the end of this is that I talked to *my* supervisor. And yeah, it was a write-up. And no, I don't feel bad about it.

Fat Shaming, Part Two!

How fucking sad is it that this has a Part Two?

Just to recap, in case there are any new readers, Hi, I'm Roz, and I have a bit of extra girth. Quite a bit of extra girth. Yes, kids, I'm a fatty. And I'm so very cool with it. I do not feel limited in my activities or my movements, just in what clothes I can wear. I do not have weight-related health problems. I have a tremendous sex life. And I'm cute as Hell.

Yet, I frequently deal with stupid people and their fat-shaming. As you all may know from previous entries, I am required to suggestive sell junk food as a part of my job. I frequently get in response to this "Oh, no I'm watching my weight" or "That's really bad for you," while the customer glares at me. Really? Then I'll pretend I don't see your cart full of beer, cigarettes, and all of that cat food made by that company that refuses to do quality inspections and is well known for poisoning animals yet somehow damn near has a monopoly on pet food, oh, wait, it's because of assholes like you who think my weight (my choice) is a problem but don't care enough about the living creatures you're responsible for to make sure you're not poisoning them (not their choice). Yeah, how's that for a rant?!

The story that I meant to tell, however, is one that some of you may have heard already.

I was recently at the store where I work, and happened be showing somebody an old photo. A coworker, who we'll call Gita, walked by and saw this old photo of me from high school, posing with my sister. Now, in high school, I was a size six (still had some awesome hips, though). My non-American readers, this is what is frequently presented as the ideal size for a woman. Not the practical, most common, or realistic size. That's a twelve, which is really only 3 sizes larger (8, 10, 12). American sizes are stupid. I look at photos of me in high school and I think I looked kind of gross. You could see my individual ribs. I don't mean you could see my ribcage when I was topless. I mean, wearing a low cut shirt, you could count my ribs from my clavicle down. My bra size was 34B. I found an old bra the other day and laughed for about twenty minutes. Today, I don't look like a walking skeleton. I'm not going to share my dress size, but my bra size is 40DDD. So, notable difference. Gita looks at this photo of my sister and me, and asks "Is that you?" "Yep, about ten years ago." I'm not at all exaggerating about this. Her exact words were "What happened? That much of a difference in just ten years?!" and shook her head.

Why in the Hell would anybody think that okay to say to me? Why would anybody think that's okay to say to anybody?!

So, I bitched on Facebook about this, without mentioning Gita's name, just saying "a co-worker." I work two jobs, so I figured nobody would really be completely sure of who I meant. The next day, my workmate, let's call him Shawn, greeted me with, "So, I came into work today, and I saw Gita. And I asked her 'What happened to your face?' She got confused and went to look in the mirror, then I just smashed her face into the mirror. And I said 'What happened to your face? That much of a difference in just ten seconds?!' " Obviously, this didn't actually happen, but damn, did I get a laugh out of it. The kicker is, folks, that Gita's pretty chunky herself (I still think she's very pretty though).

Fat shaming: It gets dumber every day.

You Can All Skip This One

Just don't even bother to read this one. It is 100% me bitching in vague terms. After all, it's my blog and if I want to scream incoherently, guess what I'm going to do?

I asked a friend for advice the other day. About what, you ask? It doesn't matter. It was something deeply personal that I've been struggling very hard with. Basically, in my broad, general, vague explanation, I've been involved in something that is requiring a lot of time and effort. It's something I want to be involved in, but I sometimes worry that it may not be worth it. So, I asked my friend, let's call her Emma, for advice on how to continue my involvement in this. Emma's advice? Bail.

So, let's talk about giving somebody advice to "Bail" on something they're not wanting to bail on.

The answer to "This is important to me, how do I make it work?" is not "bail." What is the answer? Fuck if I know. It definitely depends on what the issue is. But "How do I stay involved in something really important to me?" is not to be answered with "Don't."

The other reason "Bail" isn't a cool answer in this case, is Emma lives quite a ways away from me. It's a solid twelve hours drive time, if you cut through Canada. 14 if you don't. "Bail" is an easy answer if you don't have to stick around to see the fall out. When you contact me every three weeks or so because you're bored at the time and have no idea what I'm dealing with during the time in between, "bail" is really easy to say. However, I have to sit here and deal with the soul-crushing depression of failing at this. And the worthless feelings that come from giving up. And the fact that nobody is fucking here to help me through it.

The moral of this endless bitching? No, it's not "don't give shitty advice." It's don't bother asking for the advice of somebody who consistently gives you shitty advice and doesn't stick around to help you deal with the fallout.

The Responsibility of All People

I live in an apartment building. Based on other buildings I've lived in and/or visited, I'd say it's a pretty normal set up. Multiple floors, four units on each floor. So, on the top floor, each unit has a unit next door and a unit below, then a unit across the hall and one kitty-corner. Like I said, pretty normal.

My neighbor across the hall, who we'll call Garrett, likes to beat his girlfriend, who I'll call Lori. And Lori is a screamer. A very loud, very obvious screamer. I'm not shaming Lori for screaming when her boyfriend beats her. I'm merely pointing out that she is loud and it's very apparent when she's being beaten.

It's not uncommon for me to come home around midnight, and hear Lori screaming. From the entrance. I live on the top floor. As I climb the stairs, Lori's screaming becomes more coherent. "No! Stop! Don't! Please don't hit me!"

Yep. From two floors down, I can hear my neighbor screaming "Please don't hit me!" I usually can't hear the blows landing until I reach at least the second floor. By the time I reach the floor they and I live on, I'm debating if I should break the door down and pound this asshole myself or just call the police. So I go into my apartment, lock the door, and call the police. The police usually show up pretty quickly. Lori is usually still screaming when I buzz the police into the building.

By now, I figure you're all expecting a rant about this dick hole who beats his girlfriend. That's not what's going to happen. I trust you all know why it's not okay to beat your partner. The rant that's about to happen is about the other neighbors in the building. Specifically the neighbors who share common walls (or ceiling/floor in one case). If I can hear this shit from across the hall, you know the downstairs neighbors hear what's going on. You know the next-door neighbor hears what's happening. There's no way in Hell I'm the only person in the building who hears Lori screaming "Don't hit me!" followed by the sound of Garrett hitting her. Yet I'm the only person who has ever called the police.

It's so very rare that I'll bust out religion in any way, especially since I don't practice any religion, but here it comes. The Talmud states that it is the responsibility of all Jewish people to take care of all other Jewish people. My personal philosophy is to remove the word "Jewish" from that sentence. I know, I rage about silly things a lot. Mostly it's for the sake of humor. But if you look closely, most of my raging is about people mistreating other people (that and grammar. And maybe a little bit about Michael Buble, but I readily admit my contempt for him is unfounded and that he seems lovely in interviews). So, let's make that edit.

IT IS THE RESPONSIBILITY OF ALL PEOPLE TO TAKE CARE OF ALL OTHER PEOPLE.

That's it. That's all everyone needs to know about social interaction. So if you hear your neighbor in a dangerous situation, DO SOMETHING! You don't need to charge over there with a baseball bat and physically defend her, but call the police. I can't force Lori to leave Garrett. The police can't force Lori to leave Garrett (though they can press charges on her behalf in my state). But every time I hear him beating her, I'm calling the police so that she has documentation if she ever does decide to leave and press charges. And when the people who in one way or another witness this abuse, how could she possibly feel safe leaving? Nothing says "Nobody will support you" like NOBODY SUPPORTING YOU! Refusal to report abuse is tantamount to saying "You're not worth defending." I find it tremendously upsetting that my other neighbors are okay with ignoring what goes on. Lori is a human being. No human being, no living creature, deserves that. Nobody deserves to be beaten, at all, ever, but sure as Hell not in their own home.

A few more anecdotes about people not giving a fuck about those around them.

I heard a commotion outside a few weeks ago. I got up, went to the window, and saw several fire trucks pulling into the apartment complex, to the building across the lot from mine. I stayed upstairs and out of the way until I saw the firefighters coming back outside and kind of milling around the parking lot. With the crisis under control, I ran downstairs and to the nearest slack-jawed gawker. "What's going on? Do you know if everyone's all right?"

"There's a fire."

"Yeah, I figured that much, given there are five fire trucks. Is everyone all right?"

"It's in that building."

"Yeah, dude, I have eyes. IS EVERYONE ALL RIGHT?!"

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't ask that."

Repeat with three more bystanders.  Okay, at this point, we're not looking at "Ooh, somewhere down the road, Garrett might end up killing Lori. Let's make sure her body doesn't end up in the dumpster." We're looking at "Oh, Hell, somebody we know could be dead right now." Having the information wouldn't change anything. But if our neighbor had passed away, we could be helping her family. I finally found out after talking to the rental office that the fire occurred in the kitchen of an elderly woman and was started by improper use of her microwave and that she was fine.

Another example. My mother is terrified of snakes. Like seriously terrified. I lived about 25 minutes away from her when I received a 2 a.m. phone call of just incoherent screaming. Not even knowing what was wrong, my then boyfriend and I ran out the door and drove over to my mother's. When we pulled into the driveway and opened the car doors, we could hear my mother screaming, and heard the words, "No! No! No, Molly! Molly! Molly, no!" Molly is my mother's cat. We ran into the house and found my mother standing in the door to the bathroom screaming. Then we saw the small snake in her bathroom (the cat had tried to go into the bathroom, and my mother had been screaming to stop her from getting near the snake). I grabbed my mother and led her outside while my then-boyfriend grabbed the tiny snake and took it outside and far, far away from my mother's house. In the driveway, my mother continued to panic and scream, insisting Tom kill the snake. None of the neighbors called the police, or even bothered to look outside. True, most of them were likely asleep when this incident started, but there is no way she didn't wake up somebody. I definitely feel more strongly about this than I do about other incidents of unconcerned neighbors because, y'know, it's my mom. But seriously? Your neighbor's outside screaming for at least thirty minutes and you do NOTHING? NOTHING?! At least be narcissistic enough to be concerned for your own safety and call the police to say "My neighbor is screaming like she's being murdered. Can somebody go check and make sure we're all safe?"

It is the responsibility of all people to take care of all other people. All the time. Any time. Not just when it benefits you to do so.

The Saga of Gulp-N-Blow, Part 2

So, maybe this isn't worthy of a full blog post. Whatever. Something is glitching somewhere, and I'm unable to leave comments on my blog. I tried to comment on an entry from http://selfimprovementmusings.blogspot.com/, too, but had no luck over there either. So you are all now getting an entire post out of what should just be a comment on an old post! You lucky readers, you!

A friend made a marvelous suggestion to me re: quitting Gulp-N-Blow. Confetti. "Here's my keys. Wheee!"

The Saga of Gulp-N-Blow

Heads up, folks. This one probably isn't going to be super funny. I understand if you bail now.

So, I currently have two jobs. I really like one of those jobs (which I'm just going to call DrugStore USA). DrugStore USA's is a really good company to work for. They treat their employees very well, they care about their customers, my insurance is amazeballs, I love my co-workers, there's a lot of opportunity for career growth, blah blah blah, I really like it there. Unfortunately, I can't quite survive on my current hourly wage. So I work a second job, as a keyholder for a women's specialty clothing shop. In an outlet mall. As I grow more and more disgruntled, I call this company more and more ridiculous names. It has a three syllable name, which is lends itself to mockery quite well. In the past three months, I've gone from calling it its actual name, to an identifiable variant with "barf" replacing one syllable, to Barf-N-Blah, to Herp-N-Derp, and finally Gulp-N-Blow. I am extremely mature and this is perfectly reasonable behavior for somebody about to hit 30.

Oh, man, where to start with how ridiculous this place is? I'm going to just start by telling about the exit of my former boss, who I'll call Marie. Marie was always a little spacey and difficult to talk to, but around November she started getting a lot worse. By Black Friday, she was completely bonkers. She was showing up to work hours late for her shifts. I normally close at DrugStore USA, so I was opening at Gulp-N-Blow a few days a week. Marie would show up late with such frequency that she was making me late to DrugStore USA. Again, I love DrugStore USA and am not willing to risk my job there for a shitty part-time job with no advancement opportunities, so I quit. Then I promptly panicked about bills, called Marie, and told her I'd stay on the condition that I only worked Wednesday mornings (Wednesday being my regularly scheduled day off at DrugStore USA). It worked out well, because the other keyholder is in school all day Wednesdays and we needed somebody to open on Wednesdays. So yea! With this arrangement, my cable bill's paid, plus it's some extra money for groceries!

So Marie kept getting crazier. It came to a head on a Saturday night in February. Marie went out for a cigarette around 3:00, leaving two associates in the store alone (this itself is a violation of company policy and common sense - there should always be a member of management staff in the store). She just didn't bother to come back. The associates ran out of small bills and couldn't access the safe to get change, so they began turning away customers who could only pay in non-exact cash. They took turns calling Marie's cell phone, to no avail. Six hours after Marie left for a cigarette, it was time for the store to close, so the associates locked the door from the inside and left. They were unable to make a deposit because they weren't trained and didn't have access codes to complete end of day functions in the computer. The next day, the keyholders decided it was time to notify the district manager. Now, the districts for the company are insane, and the district manager was based over 800 miles away. So the district manager, who I'll call Jenna, hopped on plane and arrived at my store Monday morning to terminate Marie. Marie showed up three hours late, stoned off her ass. Couldn't hold her head up, couldn't speak in complete sentences, was just completely incoherent. So Jenna sent her home and told her to come back on Tuesday morning so they could finish their conversation. Marie never returned. Never signed her termination papers, never turned in her keys, nothing. And because this is a terrible joke of a company, the locks weren't changed and the safe code wasn't changed. So brilliant.

Our assistant manager, Renee, has been out on medical leave since November. So a 19 year old keyholder was acting as de facto manager until corporate started sending visiting managers out. Having management experience, I applied for the store manager job, as did the 19 year old, who I'll call Katy. We had two co-managers (Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Bitch) fly out from the other side of the country to conduct the search for our new manager. They rushed through my interview, wouldn't allow me to answer questions, and kept talking through the interview about how they were going to go a large department store and all of the things they wanted to get. Katy's interview was scheduled shortly after mine. They just completely forgot about her interview. The next day, I went in to Gulp N Blow before work at DrugStore USA, because we were short staffed and I was helping out. I was supposed to work 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. so I could get to my real job that I care about. 10 a.m., Tweedle Dumb called to say she and Tweedle Bitch were running a little late (yep, already an hour late). The two of them came flouncing in at 12:30p.m. with a bunch of shopping bags from stores in the mall. That night, I e-mailed the regional manager and withdrew my name from consideration for the store manager position. It was obvious to me that this ridiculous crap was deemed acceptable in this company's corporate culture, and I want nothing more to do with this company.

While Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Bitch were in town, I badly injured my ankle. I called off from work the day after they decided to show up three and a half hours late so I could go to urgent care and get my ankle X-Rayed. When I returned a few days later with my note to be off from work for a week, Tweedle Bitch said she had called me several times over the recent days. I did, indeed, receive a call from her the day before, but no others. So I said "I never received the other calls." To which she nastily said "Well, we have voicemail confirmations, so obviously you did." Seriously? Seriously, Bitch? Did you just accuse me of lying? About something as stupid as a voicemail? A) I don't fucking lie. B) Yeah, that's the way to treat your employees. It's a proven fact that being extremely disrespectful and calling your employees liars is the best way to achieve productivity. Oh, wait. Sorry, had that wrong. The exact opposite of that.

So, new manager comes in (we'll call her Andrea). She keeps asking me about my availability, which I'm holding firm on. I can work 9 to 5 on Wednesdays through Memorial Day, and then I'm not sure what will happen, because Wednesdays will become mandatory for me at DrugStore USA. This was not a condition of my being hired, but it was a condition of me not quitting six months ago. I've been stating to this company for six months that I am available Wednesday mornings until Memorial Day. Fucking period. This has stopped now, but for a while Andrea was calling me every day "What's your availability this week?" Same as it has been. Pay the Hell attention. So I'll go to work and there will be piles of clothes in various places in the store. Boxes torn open and half emptied. Rolling racks with tons of merchandise on them. And absolutely no notes or attempts at explanation as to what the Hell this stuff is there for. Oh, there's clothes on a rolling rack? Are these being marked down? Back stocked? Just put out on the floor? Set on fire? So I find things to do throughout the day, trying not to mess up the unexplained projects that were left in progress. Basically, what I'm getting at is that the store manager is making absolutely no attempt at communicating with me, despite my requests for her to do so.

Now Katy, the other keyholder, is on break from school, so she has totally open availability. Andrea is scheduling Katy to open on Wednesdays. So I didn't work at all last week and I'm not on the schedule for this week. Trust me, I don't want to be there, but I do want to not starve to death.

Basically, it's obvious to me they don't want me there. Cool. I don't want to be there either.

I'm about to get promoted at DrugStore USA. That promotion will come with a 45% raise. So obviously I'll be quitting Gulp-N-Blow the minute it's official and I have it in writing that the promotion is actually happening. We expect that info to be made official this week. So here's my thing. I don't think I need to give notice. I haven't been scheduled for two weeks, so obviously, Gulp-N-Blow can function without me just fine. They clearly don't want me there. They've shown no respect for me, and I really have no desire to show respect for them. I'm about to be promoted at the company I intend to retire from. I have a lot of really good references from DrugStore USA and from past employers, so I don't need Gulp-N-Blow as a reference. With as unprofessional and rude as they are, I don't even want them as reference. I think if I offered two weeks' notice, Andrea would just refuse and tell me to be done. And I don't really want that particular slap in the face. I think I'd rather just turn in my keys and announce that I won't be coming back, then insist on having a photocopy of the key log for proof that I turned my keys back in (Yeah, there's no trust here). So, folks, what are your thoughts? Give notice? Don't give notice? Sell the keys on eBay?

No, Really, Boundaries

So, here's my thing. I don't like children. I had a long ramble to justify my not liking kids, but fuck that. I don't need to justify it. If you have kids, that's awesome. I hope you love them, because they're living beings and they deserve love. I hope they have lots of people in their lives who love them. I'm sure you're proud of them, because everybody's children accomplish amazing things and they deserve encouragement. I, however, don't like children. 

One of the most common, and frankly dumbest, responses I get to this is "Oh, sure, but you'd love my kids." No. I may love you and am happy for you that you love your kids. Still don't want them around me. It's not like "I don't like green vegetables." "But try edamame! It's different. You might like it!" "Okay...om nom nom...Holy shit, this is amazing!" It's more like "I don't like being stabbed. I love you, but that doesn't mean I want to be stabbed by you." Loving the person who is stabbing me will not make being stabbed enjoyable. I may very well love you and am happy you have children that you love and are proud of, but I don't want children around me. Of course I'm not totally horrible. I'll visit my friends who have children. I'll even play with their children. My friend, who I'll call Peri, has a seven year old daughter. She's a pretty neat kid. She's really sweet, nice to her friends, kind to strangers, very smart, very creative. She likes giraffes. I love hearing stories about the neat things she's doing. I still don't want to spend more than five minutes with her in one go.

So, now that we've established I'm a horrible person and a nasty bitch to boot:

My co-workers all know that I don't like kids. I don't know what the Hell to do with them when they come into the store. And this may be most of my problem with kids. I don't want to overstep boundaries and discipline other people's kids (because it's not respectful to the parent and it's not my fucking responsibility). I'm not being paid to entertain your children. Don't let your children break my stuff. I have a thousand things to do, and people not watching their children makes it impossible for me to finish my work, because despite not liking kids, I value children and am not going to walk away while they're trying to knock a shelf of chemicals over on themselves. When they're very young and try to talk to me, I don't know what in the Hell they're trying to say. So I just nod and say "Oh, yeah? Yeah? Neat! Cool!" while thinking "Where the shit is this thing's parent?!"

Where are you going with this, Roz?! Get to the point already!

So, co-worker came in to work today. As usual, I had a floppity jillion things to do, with the extra fun bonus of a workmate having had broken the machines I use all day last night. So, co-worker, let's call her Pearl, comes in while I'm on the phone with tech support, trying to get a technician to come out on a Sunday, because my department was losing hundreds of dollars what with Mother's Day being one of the busiest days for my department. So Pearl's got her daughter in tow (6, maybe? I have no idea about the age). At this point, I'm on the phone with tech support, halfway under the machines trying to troubleshoot. And Pearl walks up with her daughter and I hear her say "You can stay here with Roz while Mommy works." From under the machinery, I just called back, "Nope! Roz is busy playing with electricity and caustic chemicals" and kept working. Fortunately, she got the not-so-subtle hint on that one and took her child with her.

In my current position, I get a 15 minute break and a 30 minute break. Since my department is fairly autonomous, I can take my breaks whenever I want without having to have somebody cover for me, but I try to take them at about the same time every day. When I open the store, I frequently don't eat before I go in because I know I have that 15 minute break, which I use to eat a muffin or a yoghurt, consume some caffeine, and read a bit of a book. With everything that was FUBAR today, I finally took my 15 minute break 2 and a half hours after I normally do. I go into the break room, unwrap my muffin, and here comes Pearl and her daughter. "I'm going to go do something on the computer in the office. Sit here with Roz." NO! DON'T FUCKING SIT HERE WITH ROZ! Dammit, Pearl, you're not a single parent. Your husband is so damn wealthy that you have a "just for fun" job. Leave your kid at home with Daddy and Big Brother or get a babysitter if you're not going to watch her at work. But of course, I won't actually say that out loud, so I just keep reading, hoping she'll get the point that I'm not there to be her baby-sitter, especially when I'm on a break. Nope. Her child kept asking me questions. "What's that paper?" "Bookmark." "What're you reading?" "Book." I wound up only taking five minutes of my earned fifteen minute break because I wanted out of the situation. 

Again, the part of this that is so ridiculous is, everybody there knows I don't like children. I'm very good at my job and I don't mind doing the really difficult stuff or moving the heavy shit around, but I tag other people in when children need things because they stress me the Hell out and irritate me.

I feel extremely disrespected when things like this happen. First of all, Pearl was completely disrespectful of the fact that I have a job to do and it's not watching her kid. She is well aware that I'm trying like Hell to get promoted and need to be getting about 16 hours worth of work done in my 8 hour shift. She knows that nobody else in my department gives a fuck, so I have to do their work, too. And, here's the biggie, she knows I don't like kids. So logic would dictate, get the Hell out of my way, let me do my job, and keep your child away from me!

Something Awesome You Should Check Out

I promise to keep this shit to a minimum and to only do it when it really means something to me. Like right now.

The Village Idiots is this fantastic musical comedy act that tours Renaissance Festivals all through the Eastern Standard time zone. Florida, Michigan, Maryland, Massachusetts, Georgia. They're hilarious. They do some traditional Renaissance-y songs, but they also do some original works and a lot of amazing parodies. They're currently working on a KickStarter campaign to fund their third independent album. I get absolutely nothing for promoting this, other than hopefully getting to experience the delight of a third album! Here's their website http://rennieidiots.com/ Go, check it out, enjoy the tracks that play. They do some seriously funny shit, and their tenor has just a tremendous voice. If you like what you hear, please consider donating to their Kickstarter campaign http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1345358175/the-village-idiots-present-fifty-shades-of-gay. The $25 option secures you a copy of the third album and your choice of one of the first two. If you go this route, I highly recommend "Chamber of Stupidity." It's the CD I listen to on my way home from work after an especially irritating day. It includes my favorite song, "Ren Girl," which sadly they appear to have not uploaded anywhere.

So, to end this on a properly Roz-ish note, which a bitchy anecdote: One time, I went on a date with 29 year old man. I had a lot of fun, but at the end of it, when I asked if he wanted to hang out again some time, he said he just wasn't interested in somebody as heavy as me. To which I responded, "Okay, Adult Braces, send me an e-mail sometime and let me know how that shallow bullshit works out for you."

My Home; My Boundaries

Prepare yourselves for another exciting adventure in "Displeasure with the Male I'm Dating!"

So, I have never been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but it's been acknowledged by doctors that I have some wonky Obsessive Compulsive behaviours. I think the worst of these is that I can't handle when dogs blow their coats. For those of you who don't know what that means, here's a totally random result from Google Images Random Google Image Search Result. Just doing that Google search is making my skin crawl and I need to go brush my dog. Okay, back. I love dogs, I have no qualms about the fact that I usually have at least a little dog hair on me. I don't focus on the fact that dogs almost always walk through their own urine and that they roll in the dirt and are generally pretty dirty. My dog sleeps in the bed with me. What I get stuck on is these horrible little clumps of undercoat, poking their way through the uppercoat, looking lumpy and messy and uncomfortable and...*retching noises*. If I see a dog blowing its coat, I *can't* not run my fingers through its fur and try to get those horrible clumps out. It was the worst part about working at a pet store. I had to abandon my register on a few occasions to "pet" a dog, which really meant pulling those atrocious clumps of fur off the dog. I readily admit that this is fucking weird and I have no explanation as to why it bothers me so much. I'm just extremely glad that my wonderful dog is a mix breed and somehow, though the two prominent breeds in his lineage are notorious coat blowers, he does minimal coat blowing. Good job, doggie genetics. Good job.

What the fuck does this have to do with the male I'm dating? Well shut up, I'm getting to it.

So, we've established I have tremendously random compulsions. While it doesn't bother me when the cat decides it's time to cuddle with me right after standing in her filthy litter box, I can't handle human feet being near where my head belongs. When sex spontaneously occurs, I try very hard to make sure our heads are at the head of the bed. When I can't manipulate things in that manner, I have to change pillow cases, at least, if not the sheets. Lately, I've been sleeping on my couch a lot. When the boyfriend comes over to visit, I sit on the end of the couch where my head goes when I sleep, he sits on the other end of the couch. I'll get up to grab something from the kitchen, come back, and his nasty, disgusting feet are on my fucking pillow.

The first time this happened, I lovingly said, "Hey, Honey, I have a hard time with feet on my pillow. Please don't do that."

Instead of giving me a nice, understanding response, he snapped at me, "My feet are clean!"

Well, no. They're not. But that's not the point. The point's not even that I'm irrationally upset about it. The fucking point is, I asked you not to do something in my home. It's not something dangerous or ridiculously complicated that I'm asking for. Don't put your feet on my pillow. Is it a small thing? Yep. Am I being overly neurotic? Probably. But to my fucked up little mind, this request is similar to "Hey, would you mind not breaking my things?" Because he comes in, puts his feet on my pillow, and I can't use it again. It is exactly like breaking my things, because it renders my a personal possession of mine useless until I can "repair" (clean) or replace it. And again, it doesn't fucking matter why. You're in my home. If tell you "you're welcome to this bag of M&Ms, but please don't eat the yellow ones," don't eat the yellow M&Ms. Why? Who the Hell cares?! I'm allowing you in my home and offering things that I've spent my money on to you, go with my weird ass little requests. It doesn't matter if I'm saying "Hey, let's play WiiBowling, but my TV was expensive so please don't throw the WiiMote at it when you have a bad frame" or "Hey, let's sit in my living room, but please don't make me do laundry unnecessarily."

So, when I say "Don't put your feet on my pillow," you have a couple of options:
A) Don't put your fucking feet on my pillow
B) If you must put your feet on the couch near where I put my head, move my pillow first
C) Accidentally put your feet on my pillow because you forgot about this "weird" thing of mine, offer to replace it or at least realize I don't have a washing machine and give me the $2.75 it'll take for me to go down the the laundrymat and wash my pillow that you covered in your foot bacteria. Or at least apologize for forgetting about the quirk and doing this thing that I've told you upsets me
D) Do it repeatedly for the sake of upsetting me because you think you're funny, watch me saw off your fucking feet Cary-Elwes-in-Saw style, and dump your newly amputated ass for being a disrespectful dick who refuses to respect my personal boundaries.

So...does anybody know where I might sell some feet on the internet?

Use Fucking Punctuation!

Use fucking punctuation!

I have decided I will no longer be answering questions via e-mail/text message/private message/blog comments/Facebook comments/etc unless they end with a question mark. "What are you doing." is just a stupid statement.

If you misuse a comma, I don't consider it the end of the world. If you misspell a polysyllabic word, fine. But I have just received a message ask/stating "how fair a way it". No. Just fucking no. For the record, this is a recurrent frustration regarding this person. I'm not really such a nasty bitch that I'll scream at random people for making grammatical errors. I just scream at people who I know are smarter than that but are being fucking lazy. Stop being fucking lazy and using some damn punctuation.

Edit: I feel I should point out that this person is
A) Not four years old
B) A native English speaker
C) An aspiring author

Here's a Rant about Subtle Fat Shaming

We've established that I'm a fatty, right? And I don't care. I'm pretty, and I have fantastic boobs. The sporadic health problems I have aren't related to the weight. My activity is in no way limited by it. So recap, I'm fat and I'm cool with it. But that doesn't mean it's okay for people to say rude shit about it. And thus begins this rant about rude shit people say.

Where to start? Let's go with the most recent. The guy I've been seeing was keeping me company while I was running errands over the weekend. So we're waiting at the bank to go talk to a banker, surrounded by people, and he says "You look really good." Aww. That's nice. Thanks, Honey. "Yeah, you're really slimming down. You look a lot better." Aww. FUCK YOU, DICK. I have been working on my core, but not to lose weight. I actually enjoy exercising and my job is highly physical with a lot of lifting, so I have been working on strengthening my core. And that is slimming me down a bit as a result. Which I don't mind, but it's not the reason. But first, it's not cool to tell me loudly, in front of people that "Oh, here, I'm calling attention to an aspect of your physicality that a lot of people find unattractive," but I still understand that's coming from a good place and is meant a compliment. "You look a lot better" is where we're getting into "Fuck off" territory. "Oh you didn't look good enough while being happy with yourself, but now that you're a little less fat, and are becoming more traditionally attractive, you look better." Look, the only time it's not rude to say "You look a lot better" is when talking to somebody recovering from a major illness. Even then, not really cool. "Hey, remember when you were on chemo? You looked gross, but you look a lot better now." No. A compliment is "You look good." When you add an insult about somebody's appearance before, it stops being a compliment. "Wow, you look really good as a redhead. You looked kinda fucked up as a blonde." "Hey, your eyes look really good today. Thank God you found that eyeshadow, because your lids were just kind of crazy and horrible before!" "The new uniform looks great on you. That orange one made you look like a washed out zombie." Would anyone say that shit? No. So why do you think it's okay to say "You've slimmed down. You look better." Leave me comments. Let me know if this makes sense. I may need to elaborate. I told the boyfriend how he turned a comment that he may have meant in a sincere fashion into a back-handed, really offensive comment. He then got mad at me. "God, why can't you just accept and appreciate my back-handed compliment?" Because in a relationship, giving back-handed compliments, or "negging", is an act of emotional abuse. Oh, and again, fucking rude.

Another fairly recurrent thing. I genuinely don't know what to do about this one. I have a co-worker who always feels it's necessary to comment on what I eat. This woman is so skinny that her doctor has been telling her she needs to gain weight. She has all sorts of health problems that are directly related to how intensely underweight she is. Now, I have a few friends who are quite underweight. I can think of two off the top of my head who have been told by their doctors they need to gain weight. And neither of those people (one is male, one is female) are trying to be so thin. The male has been forcing himself to eat more and to eat things with higher fat content. But his genetic make up is to be extremely small. And he's comfortable in his body and so he looks great. The female is a little more self conscious about it, which is sad because she's beautiful. She has told me before that the term "skinny bitch" always makes her cry, because she tries so hard to not be so intensely underweight. She has Marfan Syndrome, which some scholars believe Abraham Lincoln had. This would account for his abnormal facial features and his long, extremely thin body. I don't believe in "skinny shaming" anymore than I believe in fat shaming. Your body's your body. And it's awesome. So back to this coworker of mine. She is extremely skinny by choice. And okay, good for her. That's a choice she has made, it makes her happy, so go for it. But every time I eat anything at work, she has a comment about it. If I'm eating pizza, "Ohh, you're eating pizza" in a really judgmental way. "That's bad for you." Yep. Sure is. Om nom fucking nom. But it's the same judgement when she says "Oh, you're eating yogurt." With a strong overtone of "That's stupid, what's the point, fatty?" It's just rude and unnecessary. Same when any cashier feels it's necessary to comment on the items in your grocery cart. "Oh, man, that ice cream looks really good" is fine. "Oh, my. Ice cream, cookies, frozen pizza. Someone's hungry!" Yep. And maybe someone has teenagers having a sleepover. And someone is definitely also buying a ton of yogurt, tofu, bananas, and snap peas. Would you like to comment on that part of it?

Do You Seriously Need to be Told It's Not Okay to Knock Over a 84-Year-Old Woman?!

I spoke to my mother on the phone tonight. She recently returned home after visiting her parents. My mother is 62 years old; her mother is 84. My grandmother is tiny, probably around 5'1". She has two bad shoulders and, as she's 84, is starting to develop some dementia and is starting to lose her equilibrium. In other words, she's a tiny old lady who is confused and wobbly.

So, my mom took my grandmother grocery shopping. The store they went to is a large Wal-Mart-esque store, only regional. There are two entrances to this store - one by general merchandise and one by grocery. Each entrance has six doors - three marked for enter, three marked for exit. My mom and my grandma were walking towards the exit. My mother now follows closely behind my grandmother, ready to catch her if she falls. So Grandma's going out the door closest to the cash registers, Mom's about six inches behind her. As they're walking through the door, a 6'2", heavy set, 30ish man decided my mom and my grandma were going too slow. Instead of taking literally two steps to the next door, he shoved past my Grandma going through the exit door. Literally pushed past her and wedged himself between the door frame and her cart, very nearly knocking her over. My mom, who always talks like a kindergarten teacher, yelled "Butt-head!" at him. The guy turned around and glowered at her. My mother, being angry this man almost hurt her mother, simply, "Yes. You. I'm talking to you." Then this bastard stepped towards my mother. Stepped towards my 62-year-old mother, with her bad knees. And her 84-year-old mother. Now, my mother does not look tremendously intimidating. She's 62. She's extremely heavy. She has trouble walking. She has had four surgeries for rotater cuff injuries. She looks like a harmless older lady. However, my mother also survived an abusive marriage. In fact, she threw her bastard of a husband out. She didn't leave. She threw him out. My mother has been a teacher for 37 years at an alternative high school in a city that has consistently been ranked one of the five most dangerous cities in the country. When this woman gets mad, she is absolutely fucking terrifying. I mentioned she's had four shoulder surgeries? Each one of those injuries was from her literally physically subduing and/or restraining raging teenagers who were beating the Hell out of each other. So when a big-boned, 30 years younger, 10 inches taller than her man stepped towards her, my mother stepped towards him, looked him in the eyes, and dead serious and perfectly calm, said "Bring it, Little Boy." He turned and didn't quite run out the door, but exited pretty quickly.

Two take aways from this. First: My mom's fucking awesome. Second: WTF, dude? What the fuck? Nothing about this behavior was necessary. He was literally less than an inch from assault. If he had actually bumped into this 84 year old, physically unstable woman, she would have fallen. If she had fallen, she almost certainly would have been injured. And then try to physically intimidate them when it was pointed out her was being an asshat? All because he's too rude and lazy to walk two steps further? Literally, two steps. I can't even justify taking the time and energy to explain why none of this is okay. If you need it explained, just go live in a cave. Never have human contact again. Seriously.

You know, what? One more take away. My mom is *really* fucking awesome. Every day. Not just because of this. Because of everything.

Pretty Sure That's Sexual Harassment, Dude

I think I have a pretty solid sense of humor. I'm pretty difficult to offend. I mean, there are lines you don't cross with me, but I'm sure everyone has their lines like that. I'm not okay with jokes about rape, but short of that, jokes of a sexual nature aren't disturbing to me. You want to show me a photo of a palm tree covered in lights to resemble an erect penis ejaculating? That's pretty damn funny and clever. (Unfortunately, I'm not certain of the origin of this photo. It's been passed around on Twitter and Facebook and such quite a bit. At any rate, here is a link to it. http://www.utefans.net/message.php?id=1469443 If somebody knows the original source, please let me know so I can give credit where it's due.) You're in awe and want to show me a photo a girl sent to be printed at our store of herself masturbating? It's hilarious that she has no shame and sent that for a stranger to develop. Dirty jokes? Awesome. That customer has a nice ass? I agree. I probably have way more examples of this, but it's five a.m. where I'm at and I should be attempting to sleep instead of blogging like a lunatic.

So, here's a thing that even I think is too much. I'll be using fake names

At my retail job, we recently got a new supervisor, a male in his early thirties, who we'll call Adam. Our store manager is an older woman, probably in her mid- to late-sixties. We'll call her Linda. She is also frequently spoken of negatively by store associates. So, Adam's first day, he sees that Linda is not super popular with the store associates, and decides it'll be fun to join in on trash-talking her (awesome leadership, dude. Awesome). He gets pretty intense about it. There's an orange-y, clumpy stain on the floor of the floor, about which Adam remarked "I bet that's from Linda's cunt. Look, it's even got little hairs that are her hair color!" To me, that's not funny, just weird. Inappropriate, but not really offensive. Just weird. Our store sells personal lubricant. Adam will frequently pick up a bottle of lube and hold it up to some random associate, and say something in the vein of "I bet Linda uses this with her husband! Ewwww!" Again, inappropriate, weird, not funny, but not really offensive.

I was recently told a story about Adam's first day at the store. A female associate, who we'll call Sheryl, was  sitting alone in the break room when Adam walked in. He sat down in one of the cheap little plastic chairs and said "You know what would be awesome right now? I would like to have a beer in my right hand, lean back in this chair, and get a blow job."

Let's break that down. "Hi, female lower-level employee. I'm a heterosexual male in a position of authority over you. A blow job would be nice right now."

Not cool, brah. Not cool.

Fortunately, Adam's last day with the company was today. He had already turned in his notice before I heard this story. If he were to stay, I would have reported that incident. I don't think this incident falls into any grey area. I think that's straight-up sexual harassment.

I support coworkers being friends. I think it helps with morale and teamwork. It makes going to work less dreadful. I've worked places where nobody was supposed to talk to anybody else. Spending 8 hours in a small store with three other women and not speaking is horrible. Joke with your workmates. But don't tell a subordinate you're in the mood for a blow job! Don't even tell someone at your own level you're in the mood for a blow job!