Archive for February, 2007

Guest Post: Pink Lemonade Diva

February 20, 2007 | Filed under: Straight Jacket, You've Got Guests

One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important. ~Bertrand Russell

-Oh yes, this is a series. To be concluded on Wednesday or when every other sentence isn’t ‘holy motherfucker’. Today’s guest post is brought to you by the lovely Pink Lemonade Diva.

My milkshakes bring no one anywhere

Not a long time ago, I went into a McDonald’s to order a McFlurry and the cashier looked me in the eye and told me the machine was broken.

Karma, it seemed, was having the last laugh.

I have a confession to those in the Annapolis, Maryland, area who wanted frozen yogurt milkshakes in the mid-to-late 90’s: the milkshake machine wasn’t always broken.

But when you’re 16 and working at a national chain yogurt franchise, you’re not interested in giving the customer what they want, rather what’s easiest for you to make.

And that was – always – a small (cup) single flavor with no topping.

And even though the pre-made ice cream sandwiches in the freezer would seem like a preferable option, we made them by hand every time the supply got low, so please not those either.

Yes, I was not the Super Scooper I purported to be and now, as a mature and responsible adult, I’d like nothing more than to find that franchise owner and apologize for being such a sludge. I would also like to apologize for not locking the door at 8 pm exactly even though those people walking through the parking lot were clearly heading into your store to spend money, and, not least, for being caught by the mystery shopper for wearing sweatpants instead of a uniform pant, although I’d like to know how the hell that person caught that detail. I’d apologize for making up our own names for flavors and for the time my friends came into help clean up and sampled the flavors without using new sample spoons. We should also probably apologize for the trivia contests we’d hold offering winners a free topping, but that was just to make the shift a little more interesting – no one buys ice cream or frozen yogurt in winters, as the franchise owner later found out.

I probably should apologize for that Styrofoam tip cup that we put out to earn a few extra dollars each shift, but the one thing I will never apologize for, however, was for letting the customers in the back to customize their own Happy Birthday cakes. Calligraphy with icing is a bitch, and at least when it looked crappy, the customer had no one to blame but themselves.

So just a warning: if you’re ever given the special opportunity to write the custom happy birthday message on the sheet cake you’ve just purchased, know that A) the person behind the counter has shitty handwriting, and B) it’s amazing what those icing roses and balloons can cover.

And to all those kids with tip cups for college funds on the counter of their ice cream shop – I promise to never order a peanut butter shake, and I’ll always give you the spare change.

Guest post: Chirky

February 18, 2007 | Filed under: Straight Jacket, You've Got Guests

“One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important.” ~Bertrand Russell

-From Jes of Chirky.com

Considering Heather B.’s recent misery with [redacted] life, and Isabel’s guest entry about her worst job EVAH, I thought it only fitting for me to write a similar entry.

And so I sat at work all day yesterday thinking about all my past jobs.

I thought about my first job: I worked as an assistant to an elderly man two days a week. My job was to (a) iron his shirts and pants, (b) cook him dinner and (c) vacuum his house. For this he paid me $15 per day. He loved me, naturally, because I’m a good ironer. I love starch. And so did he. It was a match made in heaven, except he was a good 60 years older than me. That didn’t stop Anna Nicole Smith, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Also: gross.

I’ve contemplated other jobs I’ve held – jobs during college and jobs post-graduation. I’ve thought about my current position and I’ve considered my last position.

The problem is that I have a terrible, terrible memory. I watch a movie and ten minutes later don’t even recall its name. A friend tells me what she did last weekend and I call her the next night to ask how her weekend went.

I think this is because my tendency to forget pain that I’ve endured has spread to other areas of my life. Now I just forget. Period.

Sometimes I walk around in a fog, flouting the negative. Often it just doesn’t occur to me. On the other hand, when it does occur to me I am fully aware of how much I dislike my job, I have no problem complaining. But once I’m out of that situation I have almost immediately forgotten it again.

And y’all? I have something to admit to you. And you may hate me a little. But I really can’t remember a job that I’ve hated with such a passion that I’d rather lick the bottom of my purse after setting it on the concrete floor of a public restroom at the State Fair of Texas. That would be misery.

So while I’ve been intimidated and been inundated and been irritated with work, I’ve also had very cushy jobs. I’ve held positions that pay me well to do relatively little work. I’ve held positions that pay me little to do relatively a lot work.

But mostly I’ve loved the jobs I’ve had because of the friendships I’ve made. Is that a little corny? Maybe. But the good thing is that tomorrow I won’t remember what I just wrote.

An ode to my sanity

February 16, 2007 | Filed under: Straight Jacket, You've Got Guests

“One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important.” ~Bertrand Russell

So the other night I had a bit of a crying/screaming* fit and it was a lovely throwback to the tender age of four. There might have even been some laying on the floor and kicking of my arms and legs and flailing. Then I had some thin mints and did some yoga and suddenly I was rational again. Amazing how that happens.

* crying/ screaming = saying fuck, a lot and hanging up on el Madre.

The truth is that I was and am suffering from a severe case of ‘oh my holy fucking shit’ syndrome. Symptoms include severe swings between ennui and eating macaroni and cheese in while watch Oprah and sitting on my ass furiously typing and hoping and then typing some more. Then my eyes started to burn and I thought they would fall out of my head if I kept scrolling up and down on my little Bordeaux and/or I’d go blind. So! In lieu of me going blind and/or postal I did the most rational thing I could think of: ignore everything else except for my blog. Duh.

Did y’all know that if you ask the internet for help, they will help??? Especially if you write that you are about three seconds away from a straight jacket embroidered with your initials. Oh they will. Ergo, a few of them, whom I now would like to make out with decided to lend a helping hand at guest posting, while I try to just be…

And so I present to you an entry by the lovely Isabel, of Hola, Isabel

Look at me; first time guest blogger, long time fan. Heather, thanks for giving me the chance to guest blog at your shiny site. I never thought I’d see my words posted next to pictures of the glorious Miss Foxy Brown. I like it.

So let’s get right to it.

Let me tell you about the time I stayed at a job about 2 years longer than I should have.

My family moved the summer before I graduated from college. By the time I graduated and moved back home they were settled into their new town. My younger brother and sister were enrolled at the local high school and doing just fine. They didn’t move far away. Really only about a 20 minute drive from the town I had grown up in. The town where all my high school friends still lived (you know, except for the ones that moved away to college to). So while I wasn’t really that far away, I still was far enough away that life wasn’t going to be the same for me.

I decided that I needed to make the best of the situation. I needed to make some new local friends. I figured the best way to do this was to get a job which would force me to meet new people. A job where people my age worked. A job where I could be surrounded by people my age. Preferably hot guys who were my age.

I kept my eyes open for a job like this every weekend when I came home to wash my laundry and eat my parents food. (Dude, I was a poor starving college student. Of course I came home on the weekends to do my laundry. Plus, my Dad would always fill my car up with gas. Thanks Dad.) I finally found what I thought was the perfect job at the local convenient store. I had been in there a ton of times and realized that all the girls that worked there were super cute. And super chipper. They wore cute little uniforms with the store’s log on it and had cute hair. Plus, all the hot guys from town were always in there getting sodas, chewing tobacco and filling up their trucks. And there was a drive-thru window. How cool is that?

I had a few more months before I graduated, so I kept scouting out the joint. By the time I moved home, I was sure this was where I wanted to work. Lucky for me they had a “Help Wanted” sign in their window. I promptly applied and got called in for an interview. I was pretty confident that I could get this gig. Being fresh out of college, I knew I needed to wear a skirt and look all professional. (For a job at a convenient store? What in the hell was I thinking?) Anyway, I showed up for my interview in a nice skirt. There were about 8 other girls there for interviews. I got a little nervous until I looked around the room and realized I was the only girl there not wearing cut-off shorts and a tank top. I wanted to scream; Hello, have any of you ever heard of job interview etiquette? I guess not.

I had noticed that this convenient store only hired girls, and cute girls for that matter. I felt pretty confident about how I did in the interview, but what if I wasn’t cute enough to actually get the job? What if they had interviewed some other girls that I hadn’t seen? Girls that were cuter then the ones I had interviewed with? And what if they actually liked girls who wore cut-offs? I started to psych myself out.

Whatever. I got the job. I started the following week. They gave me my uniforms, spent a few days training me on the proper way to fill a refill mug with Pepsi, and I was good to go.

Good to go!

The girls I worked with were all awesome. (Okay, the older ladies that also worked there weren’t as awesome. That’s because, I’m convinced, they were jealous of my youth.) We all bonded instantly. They were really good gals who were funny and made the new job even better. And then there were the hot guys who came to the drive-up window all day. Glorious, glorious hot guys with their youthful bodies and their yummy, kissable lips (and which I didn’t fully appreciate at the time). You would be surprised at how much Pepsi a 19 year old can throw back in a day. And since I was new to town, it was even better. Have you ever been asked out on a date through a drive-thru? It’s exhilarating. Really.

(Okay, not really. Are guys so lazy that they can’t walk inside to ask you out on a date? Yes, they are that lazy.)

I had a lot of dates. I met a lot of the customers. I met my (first) husband through the drive-thru window at the convenient store (I can’t remember, but let’s pretend that he actually walked inside to ask me out). I met some of my best friends working there. Heck, I even got my life in order through the example of the other awesome gals I worked with. So what’s the problem?

The problem is that after I married the hot younger guy, I stayed on at the convenience store for a few more years. I was a married, college graduate who worked for peanuts at a small town convenient store. I filled refill mugs all day for people who were too lazy to get out of their car and come in to get their own damn Pepsi. I cleaned the public restroom after high school students shit all over the walls because they were too drunk to poop in the toilet. I swept the parking lot twice a day because people are slobs and can’t seem to throw their cigarette butts into the garbage cans. I put up with being sexually harassed by the owner of the store (and select customers) on a daily basis. I worked the opposite shift from my husband. I worked every weekend and Holiday. I was forced to wear a “uniform” with a picture of a scantly clad pin-up girl riding a bull. A bull that glowed in the dark.

I shudder just thinking about this. I’m mad at my younger self for putting up with this for so long. I’m mad at my former husband for not encouraging me to quit. I’m mad at my parents for not advising me to get a real job. I’m mad at my friends for not taking me with them when they quit and went on to get better jobs.

I can usually look back on past experiences and see though all the rubbish and be able to appreciate the good that came from the experience. To know that I’m a better person because of it. But I can’t with this. All it does is make me feel ashamed. And while I did gain some new friends, which was really all I set out to do, I also lost a lot. I missed out on chances to spend Holidays with my husband and family because I was working. I missed out on actually working towards a career. I missed out on life because I didn’t make enough money to do anything fun. I even think me working opposite shifts as my husband lead to the demise of our marriage.

What’s the moral of this story? I don’t know. All I know is that I’m giddy I don’t have to wipe shit off the bathroom walls anymore.

That’s just the way it is

February 13, 2007 | Filed under: Straight Jacket

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.” ~Winston Churchill

If I could find the proper analogy for this, I would use it. I don’t think that there are words from the English language that I could put into almost paragraph form that would adequately describe this.

I’m standing on a street and everything is moving past me. Everything is normal. Postal trucks go by, a woman walks her terrier, a man is gently stroking the top of his child’s head as she is nestled into a bjorn. Meanwhile, I’m just standing and staring and everything keeps moving – just like normal – everything except for me.

I want to write fuck a million times and tell the truth, but I cannot. I just suffer and tell Kris and pray that my head doesn’t explode from the ridiculousness of it all. And of course a little self medication.

Thin mints, Amy’s Kitchen mac & cheese and Augusten Burroughs. Shockingly enough, NO WINE. So not only am I miserable but hell has apparently frozen over.

Write the rage

February 11, 2007 | Filed under: Straight Jacket

“When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.” ~Franklin D. Roosevelt

As children, we’re taught to ‘use our words’. That screaming and throwing ourselves on the floor in a fit of rage, isn’t the answer to our problems. It will not get us what we need and want, but instead we should express ourselves eloquently and be articulate, using the words of the English language.

I’m guessing that the above doesn’t cover the homicidal rage and general pissed off –ness that I’m feeling right now. And all I want to do is scream “FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK” while standing at the top of the Washington Monument. Speaking of the phallus, perhaps tell those who have offended me that they can sit on the top of it and rotate.

Livid cannot even describe how things are right now. That tomorrow might very well be one of the worst days ever and I actually might rather be crushed by a large truck and then well, kicked in the mouth. Given that I’ve used the phrase “kicked in the mouth” about seven times in the past three weeks, then you will realize that I obviously have a hard time with using the English language, for that is the only thing I can think of to describe severe pain.

Usually I go off the deep end, flip my shit and am full of causticity and vitriol. This time? Though I am 79% sure that Jesus Christ hates me and finds me to be a complete waste of His time and talent, I have some sort of semblance of hope. Hope. Oh things suck and I should probably seriously contemplate fleeing the country, I still have hope and will get through this and oh my, look at me being all optimistic even in times of severe, white hot HATE.

In other news, I went out Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. Not just ‘out and kinda tipsy’ but seriously out what with the open bars and the shots of cognac and grand marnier and the awesome flip cup playing and have woken up with a hangover everyday for the past three days. Dizzy hangovers that can only be cured by a giant sized beer at 12:45 on. a. Sunday. The Lord’s Day. And then I went to Hooters and Hooters has curly fries and curly fries makes most everything momentarily better.