My first job was at a donut shop. Yes, I was a Dunkin Donuts gal. If any of you are getting up in age like me, you'll remember this ad...Time To Make The Donuts.
That was actually my job. Well, I didn't "make the donuts", I was a donut finisher. That meant that I got to play with all the little pumps that filled the donuts with their processed faux fruitlike substances. I also got to put my hands in big vats of goo to fills up the donut filler machines and pastry bags and no, we weren't provided gloves.
It was a job right up my alley. Even back then I was antisocial and this allowed me to work in the back room safe from fucked up customers and their stupid pointing, hemming and hawing.
Some people treated choosing a dozen donuts like they were deciding what college their precious spoiled brats should attend.
On Saturday morning though, I had to work the dreaded FRONT COUNTER. Man this sucked. The only halfway good part was that even though there was a big obnoxious sign over my head that said "NO TIPPING", most men didn't let any fucking sign deter them from tipping the 16 year old in the pink smock and big boobies a few coins.
God Bless them.
Saturdays were so busy that sometimes I would bring the gentlemen (it was only men who sat at the counter alone in those days) their coffee and donut and was never able to go back and take payment so they would just leave it on the counter. That coinage went right in the ole tip jar.
Hey, how could I be sure what that money was meant for?? I was busy!
The greatest part about working at the donut shop was that it was opened 24 hours a day. Even though I had a curfew of 11pm, my parents would let me work until 2am when the managers needed me.
It was amazing how often I was desperately needed on Friday and Saturday nights through high school! Fortunately, I borrowed the only car so they could never stop by and visit and personal calls were strictly prohibited. (Or so I told them).
At that time, Dunkin Donuts was a franchise and each store was individually owned. The one that I pillaged was owned by a husband and wife team with the sister in law working as manager. You could just imagine the drama that went on in that place. Voices raised, donuts flying...
One of my most vivid memories is when I met my first husband across the counter. He was kind enough to warn me never to drink the grape or fruit juices as he and his friends routinely reached over, lifted the lids and put their cigarette ashes in it.
How could you not love someone so considerate?
So kiddos, how about doing a blog entry about your first job? I am tagging all of the kewl kids and the rest of you that are still in the initiation period. If you've already blogged about it, send a gal a link please.
Come back with me kids to 1995 and my son's tour de force.
If tour means big fat and de force means fucking nightmare.
The big shit was a little shit of around 8 at the time and I had taken him to see the film Toy Story the previous weekend.
For those of you that have been living the past 15 years under a rock, it is a computer animated Disney hugfest where everyone ends up living happily ever after.
Of course along with the release of the film came the merchandising whores who had the shelves lined with dolls, accessories and whatever else they could think of to screw yet another parent out of their hard earned bucks to shUT ThE litTLE BRAT UP SO I CAN PICK UP LIGHTBULBS GOD DAMN IT!
So home we return with the entire cast of Toy Story with cotton blown up their asses. He didn't miss a one, we had Buzz,Woody, Rex, Mr Potato Head and all the other characters that I have managed to block out of my mind..
It just so happened that we were having company that night and my darling sweet 8 year old son wanted to make up a play and be the evening's entertainment. I was so thrilled. Mostly because his practicing and creating "sets" would allow me an hour or so peace to throw chips in a bowl and pour the boxed wine into the expensive wine bottles I keep cleaned under the sink to reuse for such an occasion.
Guests arrived. Comments on the wonderful wine bouquet ensued and it was time for number one son to put on his show.
He called everyone into the den and asked to be introduced.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, For Your Viewing Pleasure, A One Boy Play Written and Directed By Kiddo!"
Kid began his performance by running into the room with one of his new doll in hand...
"Look everyone, I got a Woody!!!"
I am sure you've heard the old saying....the show must go on....but after the initial look of horror followed by myself and my mature guests rolling on the floor and pissing themselves with laughter...it wasn't possible.
That one moment is going to end up costing me thousands in therapy costs.
SCM and I had a knock out drag out on Friday night.
Apparently in his confused little world, he thinks he actually contributes to the day to day things that need to be done to run a household.
Straightened that shit right out.
I don't mind keeping all the balls up in the air (his included) in order to have no expectations of a man who can barely manage wipe his own ass without assistance. However, I do expect said jerkwad to actually be aware that the only other adult in the household is frantically juggling all day and night.
When he expressed how tired he was after walking the dogs and putting in some laundry all my internal rules for keeping the peace went out the window.
"Blah, blah, rant, rant, didn't even fold the laundry, blah, rant, you don't do ANYTHING around here, rant rant, stay up all night chain smoking and looking at porn, bitch rant bitch, complaining whining piece of dogs shit..blah,rant, bitch.."
Doors slammed, engines revved and out to play with his pothead band buddies he went.
Whew, there must be an easier way to get rid of him. All that bitching was exhausting.
I received a text a few minutes later.....
Hmmmm, was he being sarcastic? Apologetic? Acknowledging his many faults?
Since I have yet to ask what he meant by that, I guess I truly don't give a marshmallow mallomar.
As long as he thinks twice about complaining again how tired he is, my work is done.
Now that the Kewl Kids Table is back...you may have noticed some of you have been called over from the lunch line to sit with us.
Yes, you have arrived. Congratulations.
I don't have much time to blog today what with all the good films on Turner Classic Movies and three or four pints of Edy's Max ice cream calling my name from the freezer.
I am proud that I got all my shit done yesterday so I can do whatever I want today...well, after I wash the bedroom sheets, bathe the stinky members of my family (the dogs not SCM), iron a couple of jackets I left in the trunk when I picked them up from the dry cleaner, drop my daughter off at her playdate and meet my son at a restaurant for dinner at 5pm.
Besides that I am free as a bird.
When I find a new blog, I follow it, as a trial period, to see if it is worth taking up some of my avoidenance of work time. Recently, I clicked as a follower of one that I will not name. This morning, it had a link to another blog with this direct quote, "know I feel the same way". When I clicked the link I was treated to some of the most bigoted,ignorant, racist, elitist, BULLSHIT I have come across in a while. To say I was horrified would be an understatement, to say that I was embarrassed for both of them and anyone else that "feels the same way" would also be an understatement.
You can't talk to people like this. You can't explain, you can't reason and you can't stop the hate.
What she blogged about was a tragedy. It makes me very sad for them, their family and their friends. When she blogs that these people "volunteer" to be police officers..well that isn't totally accurate, is it? They get paid by the tax payers and in some places, damn well. Many retire after 20 years with life long pension. The "person" who writes this blog has a husband who was injured on the job in New York. Which mean he likely went out on 3/4 pay for the rest of his life. How many of you have jobs like that?
The Job is as hard as it is tedious. I know. My father put his twenty years in and retired from the New York police department as a detective. So any of you that want to come here and say I don't know what I am talking about, feel free. He was also injured on the job twice. Once in a bad car accident which fractured his cervical spine and once he was thrown through a plate glass window by a suspect. I am very proud of the work he did. He didn't volunteer, however, it was his JOB, how he supported his family. He knew the risks, my mother knew the risks and so did his three children.
He became a little jaded, just like we all would but he never became a racist, he never hated people for being poor, and he certainly never taught us to hate.
The police officers that were killed in the line of duty is a shame. A terrible heartbreaking shame. But to use this incident to fan the flames of hate is almost as big a tradedy.
G-d Damn It! The Kewl Kid's Table has been suspended and thrown out of the school cafeteria.
I had a nice list of links to all you people who actually have a sense of humor in a neat, organized list on the right. Somehow, someway it is no longer there.
Personally, I think someone found out about the hazing ritual necessary to join and had to put an end to the fuckery.
Either that or I am a computer moron who shouldn't be permitted to play with anything that plugs into an outlet.
The final night of Baptism class was last night. I think I passed. No one gave me a rolled up diploma and a hand shake but I wasn't thrown out for being a blasphemer either so I think I'm good.
So now the parents need to choose a date. The priest offered a bunch of Sundays that are available and my sister was silly enough to ask our mother's opinion.
"No, Sunday just won't do. I go to mass on SATURDAY so we need to have it done at the service I attend."
My sister responded that, although that would be more convenient (ass kisser) they aren't offered on Saturday.
"I have SEEN children baptised atmy mass and I will make some phone calls."
This morning she is working her way up the chain of command to make sure her granddaughter is Baptized at her mass and a Sunday is not acceptable. I expect by now she is waiting for a call back from the Pope.
I really have little doubt she will find out how to get her way with this.
Bless her heart.
So now I need to figure out how to cram 40 people in my house for a party that, if my sis has her way, will be practically a black tie affair.
She emailed me the sample menu which included lobster claws and crab dip and I sent back a new and improved menu that included a four foot bologna and cheese sandwich and the potato salad they sell in the five gallon bucket at Coscos.
"It is the poop and drool factory's christening, not her wedding," I wrote.
"This is her FIRST party and I want it to be nice." She responded.
Okeedookee. Hey the party is at my house so isn't there an unwritten rule that I get to keep all the leftovers? I may only put out half the lobster.
You all have a good...whateverhelldaythisis....and I promise I will get the Kewl Kids Table permitted back in school as soon as possible. I don't anticipate longer than a day or two suspension.
Most of the kids are back at the table. If I missed you or you're a kewl kid that wants to hang out with us...leave a comment or send an email and my multiple personalities and I will take a vote.
Well mostly I was thinking about who or what I haven't insulted yet and I thought..
GOD! Yeah, that's the ticket.
Except that being damned to hell for eternity thing freaks me out a bit. I think my hell is going to be me, stuck in a house with Stinky Cheese Man for all time with him trying to stick his tongue down my throat as he reeks of BO, the garlic that seeps out of his pores and his nasty nicotine breath.
Wait, it appears I am already in hell so there is nothing to fear. Mental note to go on guilt free with the lust, gluttony, pride and greed thing as soon as possible.
I will save the remaining deadly sins, sloth, wrath and envy for the last half of my life. One must have something to look forward to in old age.
Since I don't know much about many different religious I will have to focus on the one I do know.
We fucking crazy ass Roman Catholics.
I mean it is the day that Saint Patrick supposedly took a big stick and ordered all the snakes in Ireland into the sea. And really, can you get much crazier than that? Oh, you say you have read all the stories of the old and new testament? Okay, nuff said.
My sister and her partner have honored me by asking me to be the Godmother to their beautiful new daughter. For those of you who managed to not get fucked mentally by the Catholic church, there is a great responsibility that comes with that position.
First of all, the priest assured us that if the baby dies without being Baptised, it will go straight to hell...do not pass go...do not collect 200 dollars. Apparently my fellow Christians are all right on board with this concept. Little tiny babies all burning in hell's fire because their Moms had a car accident with them in the car on the way to pick up some more Huggies from Walmart.
Of course this can NOT happen to my beautiful niece so I figured I had better research this shit and fast before they run out of the fifty cartons of diapers they received at the baby shower!
Since I wasn't quite sure exactly what I am supposed to do other than purchasing the kid a nice piece of jewelry and ordering a cake, I did what everyone else does when they are faced with a life changing important question...I googled it.
First I looked at the criteria for being a Godparent....
1 "be appointed by the candidate for baptism, or by the parents or whoever stands in their place, or failing these, by the parish priest or the minister; to be appointed the person must be suitable for this role and have the intention of fulfilling it;" (Canon 874.1.1)
Check. Well, the suitable part is a tad iffy but I think they were desperate because of number 2.
2 "be not less than sixteen years of age, unless a different age has been stipulated by the diocesan Bishop, or unless the parish priest or the minister considers that there is a just reason for an exception to be made; be a catholic who has been confirmed and has received the blessed Eucharist" (Canon 874.1.2)
Check. I think that in this day and age there aren't that many of us that were dragged to church and catechism long enough to get Confirmed at around 14 years old. Many a time after the white dress and veil or the cute little boy suit of Communion, parents feel their obligation has been fulfilled and they can finally sleep in on Sunday mornings and let the little shits worry about their own spirituality.
3 "be a catholic who lives a life of faith which befits the role to be undertaken;" (Canon 874.1.3)
Whoops. Not so sure about this one. Does living a life of faith include shouting Jesus H Christ every time someone pisses me off on the road, buying sex toys over the Internet or mentally plotting the murder of my husband daily?
Good thing about we Catholics, we do approve..even encourage... drinking or I would really be fucked.
As some of you long times readers know, I have sent both my children to Catholic school. My grown son right through high school and my daughter is still in primary school but I plan to torture her in the exact same way.
Hypocritical you say!?
I think the main part is the tradition. So what if the tradition is hundreds of years of my ancestors stupid enough to buy into this shit.
I think all children should grow up with some sort of spirituality. At least so they can reject it and fling it in their parents face when they become teenagers. That is also tradition.
People choose their own ways in life but being part of a religion that goes back to Saint Peter preaching to 3000 people in 30 AD at least might teach the brats their own insignificance in the big picture.
And these kids really do need to be taken down a notch now and then.
So my job is to make sure my niece gets these traditions shoved down her throat whether she likes it or not until she is old enough to tell me to go fuck myself.
I guess I am the right person for the job after all.
I just love my drugs life. It is such a pleasure to sail through days of business down turns, employee conflicts, pissed off customers, teacher and parent issues, an estranged mentally ill husband, a lover who gets literal heart palpitations at the thought of making our relationship permanent and a dog who thinks my briefcase is a fire hydrant.
Thank goodness at the end of the day I get to unwind. Many of you unwind from a hectic day by having dinner with the fam followed by a night of Dancing With The Stars. Since I get home after 8 on most nights, I relax by doing two loads of laundry, checking homework, cleaning up the kitchen from the meal my husband was thoughtful enough to cook for himself and the kid but not quite thoughtful enough to scrape the remnants off the dishes or counters. I then check my organizer to determine if the next day is a suit or khaki day, shower, brush my teeth and stumble into a dreamless sleep.
Sure does sound like I am looking for some pity and sympathy, doesn’t it?
Well, fuck yeah I am. Some admiration, the keys to the city (even a small one will do) and a personal masseuse would be nice.
Except I am really not complaining.
I’ve discovered something. The biggest whiners and complainers that they are lonely, have chronic fatigue syndrome, Fibromyalgia or any other subjective aches and pains, people that are depressed, have feelings of dread all the time or are just plain screwed up in the head are people with two much fucking time on their hands. Since I literally had to program my bowels to release between 5:35am and 5:43am each morning, I certainly have no time to think about being depressed. I tried to schedule it in once but something more important came up.
Please don’t write me about how real your pain in your left metatarsal is even though the x-rays are normal. I DO NOT DOUBT YOUR PAIN OR QUESTION YOUR DISEASE.*** What I am saying is that you have too much fucking time to think about your little piggy hurting; so let it go wee wee wee all the way home and clean out your closet, (And then come over and clean out mine.)
*** I am not going to do an addendum but just wanted to put that in caps so people will understand that I am not doubting that people suffer. What I do think is that in certain illnesses suffering is in direct relation to how active a life style you have. Disagree? Feel free to comment. This is an open forum.
The opinions in this entry are mine and mine alone and if you disagree go pop another prozac and get back in bed.
I received a brochure in the mail last week advertising a residential summer camp for girls 7-16. Terrific I thought, what a wonderful way to get rid of the little brat for a couple of weeks so I can get some peace and quiet for my precious daughter to work with enthusiastic counselors so she can discover the wonders of nature! (or something like that..I am quoting the pamphlet which I have been using as a coaster for my coffee all morning)
My daughter will be 10 by the time summer rolls around and I think that is old enough to spend a week or two in the care of slightly dysfunctional teen counselors who actually want to babysit a bunch of hormonal girls for weeks at a time. It will keep her entertained and out of trouble. More importantly, it will prevent me from having to keep her entertained and out of trouble.
After all as they say..... variety is the spice of life and idle hands are the devils tool.
Which got me thinking.... I've always wondered who the fuck "they" are anyway. I have never been invited to be a "they" and if I was, does it come with any kind of stipend? It should offer some kind of compensation because their vow of secrecy really is quite rigid.
Now where was I? Oh yeah, Friedman's theory of stagnation in the 70s.
No, wait, that is the subject of my son's college paper I am writing for him...
Summer camp..yeah, that's it.
I discussed it with the kid and although she was very excited, she did say she would prefer one of her friends attend too. I found this a very reasonable request. Despite her being pretty independent, I get that it might be a tad disconcerting to be away from home and have to make all new friends. Also, she'll need someone to join her in making fun of the other campers in the Hannah Montana wardrobes.
So, I sent an email with a link to the site to several parents to see if anyone’s child would be interested in attending. My fear was that it is a bit pricey ($600 for a week, $1000 for two weeks) and that might be too much of a burden in this shitty economy. My daughter has many friends both in the neighborhood and at the Catholic concentration camp school she attends so I perused my address book and fired off a bunch of emails to the soccer moms that I normally try to avoid at all costs
But as "they" say....desperate times....yada yada.
I received several replies back. Not ONE of the parents mentioned the cost being their concern. Every email stated in one way or another that they wouldn’t even consider letting their precious angel be out of their sight for a week or more unless it was with relatives.
If their relatives were anything like mine, they would be much better off with strangers but I didn't feel the need to share that particular fact.
Now I can deal with nutty, overprotective, media brainwashed, not weaning the kid off the titty until he begins getting facial hair type of mothers, but this fucking twats email really crossed the line…
Thanks for sending the information on Camp Mc(blah blah). Originally I thought it was a day camp like the art camp you found for the girls last summer but I soon discovered that this is a sleep away camp. I am sure you have just as much concern for your children as I have for mine but I really must question your decision to feel comfortable having (the princess) out of your sights for so long at such a young age. Molestation is a reality in this day and age and such a place would be a magnet for every pervert within a hundred mile radius.
I think you should reconsider sending (the princess) and wait until she is at least a teenager. I hope you don't think I am being too judgmental but of course I worry about all children. God Bless.
Okay, what the fucking fuck? Did that bitch just tell me that I am a crappy mother and am sending my child off to be abused with a Tinkerbell sleeping bag and a kiss on the forehead? I wonder if she'd feel better if I offer that I plan to pack her a machete, a can of mace, a chastity belt and a GPS installed in her deltoid muscle?
I think I need to start checking out the parents before I allow my kid to befriend their precious carriers of snot and germs. I don't need anymore nutty people in my life.
Do any of you remember personal responsibility? If you answered that it is an outdated concept that was from our parent’s generation, then you will not be able to appreciate this post.
However, if you have found yourself completely appalled over millions of dollars being handed over to fat slobs that blame McDonalds for their arteries exploding from congealed grease or those suing big tobacco for getting them addicted to their product even though every pack has a warning that lighting the suckers will lead to a horrible, painful, gasping for air death, you'll probably be on board with my morning experience.
Sometimes I overhear things when the rest of the world shuts up long enough for me to strain to listen. Eavesdropping on private conversations, although usually boring, sometimes pay off like the asshole conversation I overhead this morning.
Earlier, while in the elevator because I was too fucking lazy to walk the two flights to my second floor office, I was fortunate enough to be sharing the tiny little space with the lingering faint scent of old farts and another human being. Since we got in together, I am pretty sure she wasn't responsible for the tootage.
However, she was responsible for talking really loudly on her cell phone before I had consumed my first cup of coffee which quite frankly, is way beyond fucking inconsiderate bordering on down right obnoxious
But I digress.
I quickly surmised that loud talker was in a conversation with another parent from her child's school.
Apparently, there was an issue of epic proportion at the school both bimbos’children attend. She was so pissed and talked so fast, I was able to get the entire story while riding one floor up.
The disaster was as follows....
The school had changed turkey hot dog day to chicken nugget day.
These bastards on the school board decided that the turkey hot dogs were getting a bit too pricey and opted to select the evil fake chicken parts rolled in crunchy goodness as a replacement. The cell phone bitch was livid about the fat and cholesterol in those evil nuggets and how dare they choose saving money over the health of the CHILDREN????
Are you horrified yet?
As a stepped off the elevator she was still yammering away over the audacity of the system and how they should start some kind of petition.
Perhaps I am way out there and should increase my mood altering medications but I had a grandiose thought that would solve the entire problem.
Sometimes I luck out like that....
Pack your brat's lunch! Guess what…you can put carrot sticks and apple sauce and nice lean turkey breast on wheat bread with the crusts cut off. You can even put some real fruit juice in there instead of the sugar water shot with carbonation that they normally drink.
But let's face it....We all know that isn't going to happen for two reasons…
One..Mom is too fucking lazy to get up 20 minutes earlier to slap some lunch meat on some bread and two, little Billy is going to want those tasty greasy chicken necks and assholes that all the other children are going to be eating. And little Billy can't be left out..oh nooooo. That would injure his self esteem beyond repair.
It was indeed a pleasure sharing this story but I really must go now. I have to find a good lawyer to sue the elevator company for my hefty thighs. Obviously if there were only stairs to climb, I wouldn't have this flab and it should be their job to pay for the liposuction I so desperately need.