Then do something dumb before you die.
How do weekends move so fast? One minute you're waking up on a Saturday, the next it's all ZING oh look it's time to wake up for work on Monday. It's uncanny, is what it is. I think if we could somehow harness the raw speed of weekends and figure out how to convert that into useable energy, holy crap, we'd really be flying along. We would have our Jetson cars by now.
It's nice to have weekends off, though. It seems management has taken a shine to me for some reason, because I've gotten the princess schedules lately. I don't object to this in the slightest. Management is welcome to like me all it wants, so long as there is no obligation on my part to like it back. They keep giving me projects, too, which haven't been bad yet. They hired a girl specifically for Halloween, but she only works Thursday through Sunday, so they've got me doing her other three days. This means I have to wear the fruity little "Official Costumeologist" jacket and am mostly confined to the Halloween section helping confused people sort through the used area to decide what they want for a costume and then watching them just buy the cheesy new packaged costumes anyway. I've managed to spend the last few days hiding out in the production room pricing hats, though, so it's not so bad.
Running the silent auction has been easy street so far, too. The whole thing was in shambles since the last person to run it got fired (GOSSIP TIME!: how dumb do you have to be to steal a $100 out of your own drawer? I mean honestly people, as the Loss Prevention guy put it, if you're going to get caught stealing, give it some class) so I had to spend almost a whole day cleaning out the case and calling the bidding winners. Oh, darn, a whole day spent on a chair by myself in the office. And any time I had to leave the office, I left with the silent auction binder in one arm, which, when coupled with a purposeful stride, is very nearly as good as a clipboard for indicating to people that you are, in fact, very important and busy at this moment. Actually I've managed to do pretty well with the auction business; within a day or two of taking over, I've gotten people to come in and buy around $500 worth of stuff that had just been sitting in the display case collecting dust since August. Management has been duly impressed.
The only catch to management liking me is that they might like me too much. Just the other day Mary walked into the office, sat down across from me, and asked me point-blank if I had a car. Huh. Err, no. Could I drive. Uhh, afraid not, no. Well, did I have a permit. Nnnnnooooo. Then she gave this exasperated sigh and said, "Well...shame on you! I've been looking for a new supervisor."
Now, you might at this time be thinking, perhaps sensibly, that is this a great disappointment to me. But if you are thinking this, you are mistaken. Becoming a supervisor in that place is like being crowned queen of Craptown. Congratulations, you are the queen! OF CRAPTOWN. Here is your CRAPCROWN. Wear it with pride.
No thank you, I am currently only 20 years old and I'd like to enjoy my relative lack of responsibility while I still can. I thoroughly intend to one day find a better job than Craptown, and on that day I will merrily tapdance out the front door with nary a look back in case doing so turns me into a pillar of salt. Well, ok, two weeks after that day, I'm not the quit-without-notice sort. But I'm pretty sure this might be the only time in my life where failing to get a license will prove beneficial. I feel like a guy who got out of being drafted for 'Nam on a medical technicality, except instead of flat feet I had cold feet (y'know, for driving). Whew.
On a completely unrelated note, I made my first tater tot hotdish the other day. I think this qualifies me for full-fledged Minnesotan adulthood now. And just in case it wasn't official enough, I used my Uffda pot holder to pull it out of the oven. You know. To really seal the deal. I have now graduated from the School of Minnesota with a BS in Nice, baptized in cream of mushroom soup and a tater tot diploma in my hand.
I'm not going to lie to you, that last sentence was all about me wanting to say I had been baptized in cream of mushroom soup, because I think that would be so funny. And having a BS in Nice. Ha ha ha.
I have to be awake in five hours. I predict I will want to die. Why am I still up.
It's nice to have weekends off, though. It seems management has taken a shine to me for some reason, because I've gotten the princess schedules lately. I don't object to this in the slightest. Management is welcome to like me all it wants, so long as there is no obligation on my part to like it back. They keep giving me projects, too, which haven't been bad yet. They hired a girl specifically for Halloween, but she only works Thursday through Sunday, so they've got me doing her other three days. This means I have to wear the fruity little "Official Costumeologist" jacket and am mostly confined to the Halloween section helping confused people sort through the used area to decide what they want for a costume and then watching them just buy the cheesy new packaged costumes anyway. I've managed to spend the last few days hiding out in the production room pricing hats, though, so it's not so bad.
Running the silent auction has been easy street so far, too. The whole thing was in shambles since the last person to run it got fired (GOSSIP TIME!: how dumb do you have to be to steal a $100 out of your own drawer? I mean honestly people, as the Loss Prevention guy put it, if you're going to get caught stealing, give it some class) so I had to spend almost a whole day cleaning out the case and calling the bidding winners. Oh, darn, a whole day spent on a chair by myself in the office. And any time I had to leave the office, I left with the silent auction binder in one arm, which, when coupled with a purposeful stride, is very nearly as good as a clipboard for indicating to people that you are, in fact, very important and busy at this moment. Actually I've managed to do pretty well with the auction business; within a day or two of taking over, I've gotten people to come in and buy around $500 worth of stuff that had just been sitting in the display case collecting dust since August. Management has been duly impressed.
The only catch to management liking me is that they might like me too much. Just the other day Mary walked into the office, sat down across from me, and asked me point-blank if I had a car. Huh. Err, no. Could I drive. Uhh, afraid not, no. Well, did I have a permit. Nnnnnooooo. Then she gave this exasperated sigh and said, "Well...shame on you! I've been looking for a new supervisor."
Now, you might at this time be thinking, perhaps sensibly, that is this a great disappointment to me. But if you are thinking this, you are mistaken. Becoming a supervisor in that place is like being crowned queen of Craptown. Congratulations, you are the queen! OF CRAPTOWN. Here is your CRAPCROWN. Wear it with pride.
No thank you, I am currently only 20 years old and I'd like to enjoy my relative lack of responsibility while I still can. I thoroughly intend to one day find a better job than Craptown, and on that day I will merrily tapdance out the front door with nary a look back in case doing so turns me into a pillar of salt. Well, ok, two weeks after that day, I'm not the quit-without-notice sort. But I'm pretty sure this might be the only time in my life where failing to get a license will prove beneficial. I feel like a guy who got out of being drafted for 'Nam on a medical technicality, except instead of flat feet I had cold feet (y'know, for driving). Whew.
On a completely unrelated note, I made my first tater tot hotdish the other day. I think this qualifies me for full-fledged Minnesotan adulthood now. And just in case it wasn't official enough, I used my Uffda pot holder to pull it out of the oven. You know. To really seal the deal. I have now graduated from the School of Minnesota with a BS in Nice, baptized in cream of mushroom soup and a tater tot diploma in my hand.
I'm not going to lie to you, that last sentence was all about me wanting to say I had been baptized in cream of mushroom soup, because I think that would be so funny. And having a BS in Nice. Ha ha ha.
I have to be awake in five hours. I predict I will want to die. Why am I still up.
posted by Betsi at 11:44 PM
2 Comments:
If I were going for a BS in Nice, I think I could have graduated by now, with honors even. But, we all know you can't get a job with Nice.
I minored in Passive Aggressive, does that help?
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