Monday, July 12, 2004
[Shaking off the dust from falling off the face of the earth.]
Kroger resides withing the inner circle of hell. I am certain of it. My first week I'm scheduled to work 6 days in a row. Naturally it works out in their favor, as the payroll cuts it in half so there's no overtime to be paid. But I shan't get ahead of myself...
Thursday was my first day. I'm working with Dee! Thank the Demon Gods of Kroger Hell, of course, because without her there I would certainly lose my FRIKKEN MIND! The job is QUOTE--> NOT SO BAD. And one is obliged to interject the fact that Kroger has EXCELLENT BENEFITS. But then I wouldn't know that, because they won't even tell you about any of them until you're past your 45 day probation period.
The people in the "chef shop" where I work are interesting and nice. The night before I started, they had begun making a collection of haiku about Kroger, which they later explained to me they call it Kroku.
So at least they have a sense of humor. But the truth is that if I have to stay in this job I will go lie down in traffic first thing in the morning (God KNOWS I need a good night's sleep first). SOOO damned many things are wrong, it's just wrong. I can't stay. But since Shitfoot is not a day closer to earning his keep, I don't have much choice. To me, this is the "Joe Job" I had to stoop to to keep us out of a homeless shelter.
What's wrong? Well let me count the ways:
So I must leave this job. I have Wednesday off, and I will be on the phone first thing to the Grad. Employment Office begging them to get me out of this hell and get me out NOOOOWWWWWWW.
Meanwhile, back at Rusty's Ranch... the boy knows how to turn me inside out. He began acting "funny" a week or so ago... quiet, closed off, moody. I know he's stressed as hell, and I want to be there for him. He is pulling away from me instead of drawing me closer, just when things are getting harder, just when we're each about to move out on our own for the first time in a decade. I understand it, but I don't like it. He's made allusions to the fact that the long distance thing is difficult, and perhaps *I'd* be better off without him. I'll be the one to decide who I'm better off with and without, thankyouverymuch. He came down this weekend to get some more work done on his car, which didn't go as well as he'd wanted, which of course made him more moody. We ended up going out to dinner after I got done with work, and after a while he relaxed a bit and we started having fun. We decided to go out for a drink, and I ended up getting REALLY fucking loaded. Bad mistake. I hadn't drunk that much in a very Very long time. It was fun to gawk at the cute band members and tease him about being jealous (only because he was gawking at all the tit-shaking groupies, too), and things were going quite well until I returned from the bathroom with my last beer to find that he'd gotten one for me while I was gone. He suddenly became angry that he'd spent so much money when he really should be saving for his upcoming move. I apologized, it was a simple misunderstanding. I offered to give him money to help cover the cost, but he pouted. He drove me home and then asked petulantly if I wanted him to come in.
I want a new tattoo: on the knuckles of my left fist: DUH!
But my drunk-ass couldn't just let it go. We ended up in an argument. Once again I offered to give him money to cover my tab. He muttered something like, "You say that, but I know you won't get a chance to go to the bank..." In the light of day I can see how innocently he meant that to be, but at the time it pissed me right the hell off. What I heard when he said that was more like, "You SAY that, but since I know you don't really WANT to pay me back, you'll make sure you don't get a chance to go to the bank." The whole argument was silly--he was just feeling irritated with himself for spending the money, but I was feeling as if he were accusing me of forcing him to spend on me, as if I expected it of him and would think less of him if he didn't, which, after all this time, insulted the hell out of me. I'm not a gold digger (Geez, if I am, I'm not a very good one), and I'm not interested in his money, and if all he can afford is Burger King and a rented video, then I'm in, so long as I can spend some time with him. Period. And I thought he knew that, but suddenly felt accused of quite the opposite. I got out of the car and tried to stumble to the door, but I was already in tears. I just fucking fell apart. He was a very good boyfriend, though, and held me and let me cry, didn't cringe at the tears and makeup on his shirt, politely pretended not to notice all the snot I had to wipe on my own shirt. We had a very good conversation, through the tears and alcohol, but I was feeling progressively sicker and drunker, and knew it was time to get in before disaster struck, so we didn't really finish the conversation. We got in, woke up DS. I went and tucked him in as quickly as possible, embarassed as hell for him to see me like that, came to my bedroom to find Rusty out cold, fully dressed. I showered (yeah, the snot was that bad) and sat wrapped in a towl on the floor for a while waiting for the urge to puke to either grow strong enough to do it or subside enough to let me sleep. He came and checked on me, but I assured him I'd be OK. By the time I got back to bed he was out cold again.
Have I mentioned how adorable he is when he's sleeping. He's all lined up in a straight line on his side, arms folded across his chest and bottom lip stuck out ever-so-slightly in an hours-long pout that gives me a glimpse of the 10 year old he was. He sleeps like that because he still sleeps on the couch. The Ex hasn't slept in that house in months, the bed sits there empty, and he still sleeps on the couch. He reached out and pulled me close, where I could drift off with his heartbeat in my ear and his cologne in the air. Heaven.
What I didn't understand until this afternoon when I was near suicidal with stress, angst, exhaustion, pain, and nausea, was that that night was the first night of Paxil withdrawal. I had completely forgotten to take my pills the day before, and again the next day, etc. I was strung out and certain I wouldn't live to see the sun go down, or at very least wouldn't make it to the end of my shift without lying on the floor, puking and/or crying hysterically. It was the longest damned day of my freaking life, but I finally got home and got my meds, and it'll probably be a day or 2 before I'm back to "normal"...
Kroger resides withing the inner circle of hell. I am certain of it. My first week I'm scheduled to work 6 days in a row. Naturally it works out in their favor, as the payroll cuts it in half so there's no overtime to be paid. But I shan't get ahead of myself...
Thursday was my first day. I'm working with Dee! Thank the Demon Gods of Kroger Hell, of course, because without her there I would certainly lose my FRIKKEN MIND! The job is QUOTE--> NOT SO BAD. And one is obliged to interject the fact that Kroger has EXCELLENT BENEFITS. But then I wouldn't know that, because they won't even tell you about any of them until you're past your 45 day probation period.
The people in the "chef shop" where I work are interesting and nice. The night before I started, they had begun making a collection of haiku about Kroger, which they later explained to me they call it Kroku.
Oh no not again.
That nasty old bitch Liebman.
Out of gazpacho.
So at least they have a sense of humor. But the truth is that if I have to stay in this job I will go lie down in traffic first thing in the morning (God KNOWS I need a good night's sleep first). SOOO damned many things are wrong, it's just wrong. I can't stay. But since Shitfoot is not a day closer to earning his keep, I don't have much choice. To me, this is the "Joe Job" I had to stoop to to keep us out of a homeless shelter.
What's wrong? Well let me count the ways:
- It is humiliating. No really. I can deal with customer service or retail. I know there's a level of humiliation there, but this is particularly humiliating... I am fortunate in that I have not yet received my uniform and have to wear my former school's whites instead. The Kroger chef's uniform is cheap, dumpy and repugnant. In my snooty opinion, it is unprofessional and 3rd rate. Then there are the customers. Your average grocery store would be bad enough, but this store is located in an ultra-rich part of town. New money. Lots of people who truly believe their farts smell like lilacs. And to half of my customers, I am invisible. Just a faceless uniform there to scoop and slice and deliver what they want. And to the remaining half I am a safe target to vent their frustrations on, just a low "nobody" who can't talk back.
- Despite my title, it is not really a "chef" position. I work with food, that's the closest thing to "chef" that it gets. I spend the biggest part of my time (I'll say about 75%) waiting on people. Scoop the chicken salad, press the buttons, put the sticker on, "Thank you!". I got to make some cakes today... Duncan Hines. We don't even have measuring cups. I might get really wacky and spend a half hour julienning some peppers or dicing onions. A 2 inch binder full of recipes, 98% of them involve pouring a bottle of italian dressing or a jar of mayo over some chopped vegetables and grilled chicken. This is not a REAL chef position. A monkey could do this job. Maybe not as gracefully and sassily as I/we do, but it's not really necessary to know what the hell you're doing.
- I went to school for this? I am paying student loans for this job that I could have gotten without the stupid degree. I went to school to change my career. I wanted to start a career with a little knowledge under my belt. I could have just stayed at my old job for this kind of treatment, and at least I would have had an occassional chance to be creative. Here, I can't change a thing or 25 old ladies will be bitching about it for weeks on end. If I don't get my ass chewed by management first.
- It's a wasteland of malcontent. The corporate climate is so petty and fucked up. You are basically rewarded for simply staying there. Raises at specified intervals no matter what... good for the wallet, I suppose, but it breeds laziness. Nobody wants to do their job. They bitch to high heaven when you ask them to. They openly complain about "management" and how awful their jobs are. After a year or so, most people with brains and potential have moved on, and the rest become complacent and braindead. I don't want to become one of the Kroger Zombies.
- I do not fit in. I like my lead chef, Alex, and my 2nd chef Dara. And I'm quite fond of working with Dee. But virtually every other human in that building rides my last nerve like they're rodeo stars. On a personal level, I identify more with the management than with the people I work with. And since they openly mock and complain about management (I've never worked in such a politically divided climate), I am not comfortable with them.
So I must leave this job. I have Wednesday off, and I will be on the phone first thing to the Grad. Employment Office begging them to get me out of this hell and get me out NOOOOWWWWWWW.
Meanwhile, back at Rusty's Ranch... the boy knows how to turn me inside out. He began acting "funny" a week or so ago... quiet, closed off, moody. I know he's stressed as hell, and I want to be there for him. He is pulling away from me instead of drawing me closer, just when things are getting harder, just when we're each about to move out on our own for the first time in a decade. I understand it, but I don't like it. He's made allusions to the fact that the long distance thing is difficult, and perhaps *I'd* be better off without him. I'll be the one to decide who I'm better off with and without, thankyouverymuch. He came down this weekend to get some more work done on his car, which didn't go as well as he'd wanted, which of course made him more moody. We ended up going out to dinner after I got done with work, and after a while he relaxed a bit and we started having fun. We decided to go out for a drink, and I ended up getting REALLY fucking loaded. Bad mistake. I hadn't drunk that much in a very Very long time. It was fun to gawk at the cute band members and tease him about being jealous (only because he was gawking at all the tit-shaking groupies, too), and things were going quite well until I returned from the bathroom with my last beer to find that he'd gotten one for me while I was gone. He suddenly became angry that he'd spent so much money when he really should be saving for his upcoming move. I apologized, it was a simple misunderstanding. I offered to give him money to help cover the cost, but he pouted. He drove me home and then asked petulantly if I wanted him to come in.
I want a new tattoo: on the knuckles of my left fist: DUH!
But my drunk-ass couldn't just let it go. We ended up in an argument. Once again I offered to give him money to cover my tab. He muttered something like, "You say that, but I know you won't get a chance to go to the bank..." In the light of day I can see how innocently he meant that to be, but at the time it pissed me right the hell off. What I heard when he said that was more like, "You SAY that, but since I know you don't really WANT to pay me back, you'll make sure you don't get a chance to go to the bank." The whole argument was silly--he was just feeling irritated with himself for spending the money, but I was feeling as if he were accusing me of forcing him to spend on me, as if I expected it of him and would think less of him if he didn't, which, after all this time, insulted the hell out of me. I'm not a gold digger (Geez, if I am, I'm not a very good one), and I'm not interested in his money, and if all he can afford is Burger King and a rented video, then I'm in, so long as I can spend some time with him. Period. And I thought he knew that, but suddenly felt accused of quite the opposite. I got out of the car and tried to stumble to the door, but I was already in tears. I just fucking fell apart. He was a very good boyfriend, though, and held me and let me cry, didn't cringe at the tears and makeup on his shirt, politely pretended not to notice all the snot I had to wipe on my own shirt. We had a very good conversation, through the tears and alcohol, but I was feeling progressively sicker and drunker, and knew it was time to get in before disaster struck, so we didn't really finish the conversation. We got in, woke up DS. I went and tucked him in as quickly as possible, embarassed as hell for him to see me like that, came to my bedroom to find Rusty out cold, fully dressed. I showered (yeah, the snot was that bad) and sat wrapped in a towl on the floor for a while waiting for the urge to puke to either grow strong enough to do it or subside enough to let me sleep. He came and checked on me, but I assured him I'd be OK. By the time I got back to bed he was out cold again.
Have I mentioned how adorable he is when he's sleeping. He's all lined up in a straight line on his side, arms folded across his chest and bottom lip stuck out ever-so-slightly in an hours-long pout that gives me a glimpse of the 10 year old he was. He sleeps like that because he still sleeps on the couch. The Ex hasn't slept in that house in months, the bed sits there empty, and he still sleeps on the couch. He reached out and pulled me close, where I could drift off with his heartbeat in my ear and his cologne in the air. Heaven.
What I didn't understand until this afternoon when I was near suicidal with stress, angst, exhaustion, pain, and nausea, was that that night was the first night of Paxil withdrawal. I had completely forgotten to take my pills the day before, and again the next day, etc. I was strung out and certain I wouldn't live to see the sun go down, or at very least wouldn't make it to the end of my shift without lying on the floor, puking and/or crying hysterically. It was the longest damned day of my freaking life, but I finally got home and got my meds, and it'll probably be a day or 2 before I'm back to "normal"...
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