Y’all. OMG. Seriously, this is the best NaNoWriMo yet. It’s the second day, and I’m over ten thousand words.
Ten. Thousand. Words.
They’re pouring out left and right. And this pile is only going to need minimal editing when I’m done with it. Right now I’m guessing about 80k is where I’ll find the finish line.
I’m psyched. I’m stoked. Let’s do this.
And hopefully my husband will survive this World Series. And my manager. He’s probably shitting bricks too.
I’ve never had an employer I could be completely honest with. I’ve always had to make up a physical ailment when depression kept me from functioning.
If you’ve worked twelve hours and your feet are slick, be careful getting in the shower. You might slip and fall and maybe even pull the handle off the shower door.
Apparently falling in the bathroom is an annual thing for me now. But at least no concussion this time!
Also, I finally got my spiro about 26 hours after dropping the prescription off.
Y’all. I worked 3.75 hours today (my second favorite shift after 3.25 hours) and I dealt with all these people.
- The girl who looked in the case of keychains, money clips, and card cases and then turned to ask me if we sell any rings we can engrave on. We do not, because we can’t engrave on rings. She asked me why not. This is the response I get every. Single. Time. So I told her the same answer I always give: because the engraver is not equipped for it. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. It irritates me to no end when people argue with me when I tell them what we can and cannot engrave. Your ring? Nope. Your $600 watch? Nope. Your $20 watch that you won’t open up the band or remove the back? Nope. Your giant plastic souvenir wrestling champion belt? Nope. And yes, I’ve been asked that.
- The lady who wanted a contact number for the hair straightener kiosk next door. I do not have one, nor would I give it out to a random shopper even if I did. You’re the one who spent way too much money on a no-name hair straightener from some good-looking smooth-talker at a mall kiosk, you figure it out. She got pretty upset that I didn’t have a phone number. Bet she didn’t even save her receipt.
- The old lady who called to ask how long it would take to get something engraved. People, unless you are walking towards me while you’re on the phone, I could have a fifty-piece order between now and the time you decide to show up. All I can give you on the phone is a rough estimate, which is, it depends what you get and what you want engraved on it, but usually same day. So she asked if I came right now, how long would it take? There’s about a two hour difference between one word on a plate and four different monograms on a set of red wine glasses. I told her an hour, and she said she would be there in a few minutes. When I left two hours later, she hadn’t shown up yet.
- The guy who keeps calling for my super-part-time coworker. I’ve talked to him four times this week. But at least today he identified himself and didn’t badger me with questions about when she’ll be in, which I won’t answer.
- The man looking for a flask. He may have a memory problem. He’s stopped three times in the past two months while I’ve been at work to look at flasks. He’s always forgotten his glasses, and asks if the same one is stainless steel and how many ounces it holds. Yes it’s stainless steel, but I have to look up the volume. He always argues that it should be stamped on the bottom. It’s not, on the one that he likes. He always gets excited about the price of the flask but leaves without a word when I tell him the price for engraving.
- The woman whose husband told her there was a Scentsy store in the mall. Now, I’m pretty sure we had a kiosk last Christmas, but other than that, no. But I don’t know. So I told her I don’t know. I don’t know why she got mad at me because I don’t know. So that’s now two things I don’t know, withing two minutes.
- The woman who asked me why this mall doesn’t have an Abercrombie. Now, nearly all of you have never met me, but if you’ve seen my Instagram feed on the right there, you could probably guess that I do not frequent Abercrombie. Possibly because it’s not my style, but mostly because their clothes would not fit me. Also, I work in a kiosk. I do not have a backdoor on the ins and outs of mall management’s tenant plan.
New assistant manager starts next week, fingers crossed.
I want to use adjectives ending in -ent that contain odd combinations of consonants: lambent, nascent. But none of them are pertinent.
I want to wrap my body around the dollar fifty bottle of Wet n Wild Basic Beach I bought at the dollar store and let it fill the hollow inside me.
I feel slow, like a personification of the art project of people covered in honey. The CD skips in blatant opposition to this feeling. Mindless Self Indulgence stutters along.
I had stories to tell but they’ve changed their minds.
The air smells of poverty and mud.
Not going to the grocery store for garlic feels less like self-care and more like petty, misplaced passive aggression. I don’t care; I’m not going.
I go on Facebook, and people are always griping about how they never learned how to balance a checkbook or pay taxes and that they’ll never use calculus in the real world.
Now, for some reason, I know a lot of math teachers. Like, serious business mah teahcers. Even math professors. I mean, I was good at math in school, but that was plenty good enough for me. No offense to the possibly dozens of math teachers reading this, but it’s just not my thing, you dig?
So the math teachers always have to get up in arms about how each and every one of us grown folks uses this higher math all the time without even knowing it.
First of all, I would never let a career define me so deeply that any disparagement of anything to do with my career choice becomes a personal attack on me.
I’m a writer; I’m an artist. I’ll be the first to tell you that there’s bad art and bad literature. Because it’s true. But that doesn’t lessen its impact one single bit. Sometimes creating bad art is the only thing saving a person from completely giving up. I fully support that.
Now, math is a little different. I’m sure there’s a mathematician somewhere scribbling away at formulas to keep the darkness at bay, but that’s not where I’m going today.
If a contemporary complains about the uselessness of the math they learned in school, it’s not an attack on you as a math teacher. Jeez. Take a breath. It’s not even an attack on math. Take another breath.
Take another breath, cause here’s my point:
What difference does it make whether or not someone realizes that they’re doing math?
None at all.
It doesn’t matter at all. I promise. Where’s the sense in trying to get people riled up about having to use math every day? Doesn’t that just make your life harder as a math professional? Wouldn’t you rather not struggle with more and more animosity towards the math that is your life?
Just let it go.
Honestly, I’m with everyone who wants to be taught practical things in school. Everyone who doesn’t want to spend time learning about things that don’t interest them and won’t help them in their chosen life paths.
Today I shit my pants when I sneezed at work close to closing time. My cropped sweater doesn’t cover my rear end, and remember, I work in a kiosk.
I never learned in school what to do about that.
But I can’t for the life of me think of what to call that class.