At a temperature of millions of degrees
Last day ever at Savers today! I feel so free. And employee discount-less. I think the loss of the discount hasn't really hit me yet. That's gonna be intense. Good thing I've got two weeks ahead of me with plenty of time to be sitting down, so I'll be ready.
I've also finally gauged my ears up to my goal, size 0, which means two things: I can stick my little finger in the hole, which is sort of gross and endlessly fascinating at the same time, and I can't answer the phone. I spent all day yesterday saying "Thanks for OW calling Lake Street Savers where your donation benefits ARC this is Betsi how may I OW help you?" The OW being the part where the receiver banged against my swollen ear.
Actually, I say all that a lot faster. In terms of relative speed, it's the Hail Mary of phone answering. "ThanoofocallinlakestreesaverswhereyerdonshionsbenfitARCthisBetsihowcannihelpyoo." It's a wonder, and perhaps a testament to how well anybody's paying attention, that more people don't respond to that with "...what?"
Nine times out of ten, people were calling to ask if we were open, it being Labor Day and all. Which, I think, is sort of like calling somebody to ask if they're alive, or perhaps if they have a telephone. No ma'am, we are not open today. That's why I'm answering the phone. It's just this thing I do.
Labor Day was also supposed to be my last day of labor, which I thought was a nice poetic touch of closure. And then last Friday I had just finished telling somebody about how Monday was going to be my last day, when Ben walked by and complained that he'd forgotten to take Tuesday off and had obligations to be at the RNC at the same time he was scheduled to work.
That first time I tried to go to Flogging Molly and ended up spending the entire evening on the lawn of the capitol, they were, I don't know, practicing for this event. He'd been working at it long enough that I knew it was a pretty big deal to him. Samira was the only person who could have covered his shift, and when I told him she'd declined, Ben stomped a little bit and snarled some and then announced the whole thing was In the Hands of Fate.
So what could I do? Something about Ben triggers my Big Sister reflex. Of course I had to tell Dan I'd cover for him.
Somebody had to cover his stupid butt on this, because he can't really afford to get fired. He signs his entire paycheck over to his mom to help pay rent every month. I've seen her flip all to pieces over an unmopped floor. It was terrifying. I can't even fathom what would happen if he got fired over poetic license. Three years, and I had to saunter out into the wild blue yonder on a senior day. I hate senior day.
As Ben explains it, he and his fellow hippie associates will be providing a non-hostile zone for peaceful communication, which, if you want a brief peek into the maladjusted Visualization Center of my mind, looks something like this: Jeering throng of protesters, stage left; sneering horde of protester protesters, stage right; both factions attempting to attack one another in a Braveheart rush, armed with plastic forks, and frustrated in their efforts by the fact that stage center is taken up by a circle of seated people, garbed in flowing raiment and humming like they mean it.
Actually I am told it's called toning, not humming. I should probably start taking notes. Maybe make some flash cards.
And no, I can't really explain the forks.
Anyway, all that is well and good, but there is one basic visual flaw in this picture: through an awe-inspiring laundry mishap, Ben ruined his own flowing raiment and will instead be wearing a sheet.
One minute you're doing a favor for a guy so he can promote peace and tranquility amid potential chaos, the next you're helping him stand around outside the Republican National Convention in nothing but a bedsheet. A slightly sticky bedsheet, even, as there was a minor maple syrup mishap in his backpack. We can really only hope the syrup splotches will help hold the damn sheet shut.
It's the difference between covering a shift for somebody so he can run a marathon, and covering a shift for somebody so he can run a marathon in clown shoes and a beret. I could have been free of Savers forever, but instead I'm working an extra day so Ben can wear a sheet and hum. Tone. Almost twenty three years of this and I still manage to be surprised at the way things go all cattywumpus on me.
On the bright side, though, I get to feel a little bit like Mara, who came up again this last weekend and announced, in no uncertain terms, that she was going to do all my dishes, which hadn't been done in months. I was cordially invited to watch, or perhaps sit on my bed and sulk, but there would be no stopping her. Someday Mara is going to make friends with somebody completely self-sufficient and competent, possibly even helpful, and I don't know what she's going to do with herself. I had been trying to weasel my way out of having that garage sale, but I couldn't just lounge around and watch her scrape small civilizations out of my tupperware, so I started pricing stuff.
Concerned mothers of the world would do well to find Maras to befriend their idiot children. I spent Saturday intentionally getting sunburned at the State Fair and then being sternly lectured about skin cancer and the benefits of sunscreen, Sunday was her telling me to go take a nap while she ran my garage sale for me. Someday Mara will call me up and say she needs my help with something and I will be there with bells on, if only I could imagine what she could ever need my help with. Help me, Betsi, I need somebody to burn some popcorn. Help, twelve across is a six letter word for "mess," the third letter is "a" and the last letter is "o." Help, I'm not completely miserable, I need to accidently go on a twelve mile hike. Help, there's this very large centipede, no come back why are you running away.
It's not quite a Mara level accomplishment, but if it means Ben gets to fulfill his obligation to stand around in front of the RNC in a 200-thread-count toga AND have a job to come back to, I guess there are worse things I could do than tack another day on to my paycheck. It's sort of just an entry level position, but maybe I'll make a Mara of me yet.
Besides, I'll have all of Israel to milk that one dry. "Ugh, I'm so thirsty, and I'm all out of water...you still got some there, huh? Remember that time when I..."
I've also finally gauged my ears up to my goal, size 0, which means two things: I can stick my little finger in the hole, which is sort of gross and endlessly fascinating at the same time, and I can't answer the phone. I spent all day yesterday saying "Thanks for OW calling Lake Street Savers where your donation benefits ARC this is Betsi how may I OW help you?" The OW being the part where the receiver banged against my swollen ear.
Actually, I say all that a lot faster. In terms of relative speed, it's the Hail Mary of phone answering. "ThanoofocallinlakestreesaverswhereyerdonshionsbenfitARCthisBetsihowcannihelpyoo." It's a wonder, and perhaps a testament to how well anybody's paying attention, that more people don't respond to that with "...what?"
Nine times out of ten, people were calling to ask if we were open, it being Labor Day and all. Which, I think, is sort of like calling somebody to ask if they're alive, or perhaps if they have a telephone. No ma'am, we are not open today. That's why I'm answering the phone. It's just this thing I do.
Labor Day was also supposed to be my last day of labor, which I thought was a nice poetic touch of closure. And then last Friday I had just finished telling somebody about how Monday was going to be my last day, when Ben walked by and complained that he'd forgotten to take Tuesday off and had obligations to be at the RNC at the same time he was scheduled to work.
That first time I tried to go to Flogging Molly and ended up spending the entire evening on the lawn of the capitol, they were, I don't know, practicing for this event. He'd been working at it long enough that I knew it was a pretty big deal to him. Samira was the only person who could have covered his shift, and when I told him she'd declined, Ben stomped a little bit and snarled some and then announced the whole thing was In the Hands of Fate.
So what could I do? Something about Ben triggers my Big Sister reflex. Of course I had to tell Dan I'd cover for him.
Somebody had to cover his stupid butt on this, because he can't really afford to get fired. He signs his entire paycheck over to his mom to help pay rent every month. I've seen her flip all to pieces over an unmopped floor. It was terrifying. I can't even fathom what would happen if he got fired over poetic license. Three years, and I had to saunter out into the wild blue yonder on a senior day. I hate senior day.
As Ben explains it, he and his fellow hippie associates will be providing a non-hostile zone for peaceful communication, which, if you want a brief peek into the maladjusted Visualization Center of my mind, looks something like this: Jeering throng of protesters, stage left; sneering horde of protester protesters, stage right; both factions attempting to attack one another in a Braveheart rush, armed with plastic forks, and frustrated in their efforts by the fact that stage center is taken up by a circle of seated people, garbed in flowing raiment and humming like they mean it.
Actually I am told it's called toning, not humming. I should probably start taking notes. Maybe make some flash cards.
And no, I can't really explain the forks.
Anyway, all that is well and good, but there is one basic visual flaw in this picture: through an awe-inspiring laundry mishap, Ben ruined his own flowing raiment and will instead be wearing a sheet.
One minute you're doing a favor for a guy so he can promote peace and tranquility amid potential chaos, the next you're helping him stand around outside the Republican National Convention in nothing but a bedsheet. A slightly sticky bedsheet, even, as there was a minor maple syrup mishap in his backpack. We can really only hope the syrup splotches will help hold the damn sheet shut.
It's the difference between covering a shift for somebody so he can run a marathon, and covering a shift for somebody so he can run a marathon in clown shoes and a beret. I could have been free of Savers forever, but instead I'm working an extra day so Ben can wear a sheet and hum. Tone. Almost twenty three years of this and I still manage to be surprised at the way things go all cattywumpus on me.
On the bright side, though, I get to feel a little bit like Mara, who came up again this last weekend and announced, in no uncertain terms, that she was going to do all my dishes, which hadn't been done in months. I was cordially invited to watch, or perhaps sit on my bed and sulk, but there would be no stopping her. Someday Mara is going to make friends with somebody completely self-sufficient and competent, possibly even helpful, and I don't know what she's going to do with herself. I had been trying to weasel my way out of having that garage sale, but I couldn't just lounge around and watch her scrape small civilizations out of my tupperware, so I started pricing stuff.
Concerned mothers of the world would do well to find Maras to befriend their idiot children. I spent Saturday intentionally getting sunburned at the State Fair and then being sternly lectured about skin cancer and the benefits of sunscreen, Sunday was her telling me to go take a nap while she ran my garage sale for me. Someday Mara will call me up and say she needs my help with something and I will be there with bells on, if only I could imagine what she could ever need my help with. Help me, Betsi, I need somebody to burn some popcorn. Help, twelve across is a six letter word for "mess," the third letter is "a" and the last letter is "o." Help, I'm not completely miserable, I need to accidently go on a twelve mile hike. Help, there's this very large centipede, no come back why are you running away.
It's not quite a Mara level accomplishment, but if it means Ben gets to fulfill his obligation to stand around in front of the RNC in a 200-thread-count toga AND have a job to come back to, I guess there are worse things I could do than tack another day on to my paycheck. It's sort of just an entry level position, but maybe I'll make a Mara of me yet.
Besides, I'll have all of Israel to milk that one dry. "Ugh, I'm so thirsty, and I'm all out of water...you still got some there, huh? Remember that time when I..."
posted by Betsi at 7:45 PM
1 Comments:
Why would I ever want to be friends with a person who doesn't need my help? Doesn't everyone have an insatiable urge to constantly feel needed and daily reinforcement that their life is worth-while? Or is that just me?
Anyway, you know I do it 'cause I love you, and I want you to write about me in your blog.
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