Graduation Snuggie

This morning, I had a meltdown.  I was lying in bed, and I started sobbing about not being in school.  It seems crazy to think I am not going back next semester, and instead of being excited, I have wavered between feelings of disbelief and sorrow.  It feels like it is going to take me a few days to even come to grips with being free (other than work obligations).  I feel lost, a little directionless, and moronic for feeling this way.

When I arrived at work, my day changed.  A few days ago I typed up our White Elephant Gift Exchange Rules for our company Christmas party. Side note: it seems no matter how many rules are in place, the exchange usually ends in shambles; we make it about halfway through before people wander off to do shots or get drunken enough that they can't read which number they are--and I am just as guilty of this as anyone, and I think I am supposed to run the thing because I have a loud voice--and then there are just gifts lying around everywhere.  On the rules flyer, I inserted a subliminal picture of a Snuggie, hoping someone would catch on and bring it as their gift to exchange.  My master plan was to end up with the Snuggie, no matter what. 

Well, I didn't have to.  On my desk today sat a coveted Snuggie, a graduation gift from my coworkers.  Though I have talked about Snuggies for years, I have never had the guts to buy one seriously.  And though I have mentioned them, no one--until now--has gifted me one.  I was so excited that it seemed there were angels singing and the box was glowing.  The first dilemna: to put Snuggie on in front of everyone while working.  I had to restrain myself from doing it--I mean, really, it's all I could think about all night at work, but I never succumbed because I knew once I had Snuggie on, then I would want to put Snuggie to the test and wouldn't get much work done. 

Moments after I got home from work and slid in the door, I ditched my clothes and donned pajamas.  I unwrapped Snuggie, and my first thought was how do I get this damned thing on? It's so big!  And once I got it on, I made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.  Snuggie is long and hard to walk in, and after I made it back to the bedroom, I forgot something in the kitchen and needed to head back, but since Snuggie is so big, and picked up a cat toy on the initial trip back from the kitchen, I decided to take Snuggie off.  OW!  Staticky!  With a ZAP! I was almost afraid to put Snuggie back on.  The static-factor is making me glad I didn't consider putting Snuggie on naked, seriously, because I considered it briefly, though my butt would have been hanging out the back like a hospital gown.  That made me think, what if I wear Snuggie like a robe? And I tried it.  I have the *new with pockets* Snuggie, and while it kind of made an interesting robe, it's still a blanket with sleeves.  I pulled Snuggie off once again, with a loud crack of static and shock to my ass, and decided, ultimately, Snuggie is probably best while lounging  (and it is incredibly warm and awesome) and typing a Snuggie story or reading a book, and that is where I am now.

So, while it hurts when the cat cuddles in my lap, both of us being zapped with static by each subtle movement, I think this was the perfect gift, a little distraction to forget my feelings of woe and give me feelings of WHOA!

Panic at the Graduation

I never understood why retired people said they felt like they were going to die; now I do.  For days I have toyed with writing this blog, trying to decide if it was going to make me feel better or worse or if people would laugh at me.   And last week felt like it went by in a second; this week seems to be slowing in time, the days slowly ticking down, as graduation inches nearer.

I am graduating in 3 days, and while I know I worked hard and deserve it, I have this nagging panic that hasn't left in the past month.  Most people are excited to be out of school when it finally happens.  Most people struggle just to get the degree done, and when it's done they say good riddance.  I am one of the weird ones.  I like school; it's probably the driving force for me wanting to be a professor.  One day as I sat in a class, watching my best professor and mentor Bruce Ballenger teach, I realized that I wanted to be in the classroom--the college classroom--always. With graduation, I feel like my brain will turn to mush.

I know that my brain will not turn to mush, but I think I am worried because I won't have anything to do after graduation is here.  While I have a list of things to occupy me, I will feel unproductive.  College gave me something to look forward to, to worry about, to direct my stress, to be proud of.  After a string of retail jobs where I was unhappy, I found college.  In college, I found what I want to do with my life; this break before I apply for grad school seems like a cruel speed bump.  One that I know I need to take, as I don't want to burn out in grad school, and one I don't really want all at the same time.

The other panic stems from the huge packet the government sends which essentially screams "PAY UP!"  It seems like the transitions all come too fast.  The government gives a six-month grace period for paying, and it seems that they should hold off on the paperwork barrage until at least three months after graduation.  I have no idea how I am going to pay.  And when I picked my repayment plan, I laughed that it says I will be paying until 2038.  I hope it doesn't take that long.

I guess what bothers me most, is I feel a uncomfortable in my world.  I rarely feel this uncomfortable in my world, where I debate whether I am having a panic attack or a heart attack on an hourly to daily basis depending on the moment. I don't like change; I don't like the unknown.  And there is a lot of both right now.  I have an incredible support system, and that will help.  So will the amount of beer I've been consuming lately.

Laziness, missing noses, bums, pap pizza, and hatchets.

I haven't posted in a long time, simply because I have been lazy and unmotivated.  I am trying to get motivated, but I am grappling with school being in three weeks, and needing to study for the GRE which I am taking again sometime in September or October.  Also, a wedding I will be performing is looming in the near future, and I need to find something witty, romantic, and heartfelt to say and pick something to read.  So, basically with so many responsibilities swirling, I choose to do nothing instead.

Here are some highlights for the week, though.

1. During a fight in the Boise area, a man bit off another man's nose.  WTF?

2. I saw a homeless man today wearing a sign that said "KICK ME FOR A DOLLAR."  A friend and I talked about how the sign grammatically means, kick the guy, and you get a dollar for doing it--you not only get to kick another human, you get paid for doing so.  What he really means, as I am sure you have gathered, is give him a dollar and you get to kick him.  I wanted to give him a couple of dollars to take a picture of him with the sign, but for some reason, I just didn't have the heart.  However, I think it rates as the most ingenious idea that any homeless person has come up with.  Degrading? Yes. Creative? Most definitely.

3. I drove past a Papa John's today, and the sign said "Pap John" or "Pap Pizza" or something like that.  My friend asked, "Are they out of business or something?" "No," I replied.  "But they will be soon if they are selling "Pap Pizza."

4.  A man attacked a soda machine with a hatchet on Sunday.  Why?  He thought there was someone trapped inside--oh, and he was high on meth.  I know it shouldn't, well maybe it should, but it makes me laugh really hard. 

http://www.idahostatesman.com/2010/08/02/1289300/boise-police-man-arrested-after.html#storylink=omni_popular

Independent Verification

Going to college as an adult, one who is independent and has been for many years always surprises me. It seems like the university system is set up to deal with 18 year-olds, and I feel like I am often being patronized. Most of the people that work at the counters in different departments at the university are students on work study, and while some of them don't seem totally incompetent, the majority of them do.

In February, I was asked for the second time in my college career to fill out what is called an "Independent Verification" form. Essentially, the college, after looking at your taxes, notices an error that brings your "independence" into question. Meaning, they think you live with your parents. How this error indicates you live with your parents I am not sure. When this happened to me the first time, I wrote the Financial Aid department about the process before subsequently writing a column in the school newspaper in which I invited the Financial Aid department to my house for a tour to see the disarray that was my independent life. If I lived with my mother, I said, my laundry would be folded and clean, my hair brushed regularly. I was assured in an email that I received from the Financial Aid department that the selection for Independent Verification was a "highly-scientific process based on a very complicated algorithm and that most importantly, students were always randomly selected."

So, when I was randomly chosen a second time in as many years by the Financial Aid office, I printed out my paperwork, took it down to the Financial Aid office, only to have them tear half of it out of the neatly stapled pack I made, and give it back. "We only need these parts of your taxes" the work-study girl said to me twirling her hair and chomping her gum while giving me the *blink blink* of her doe eyes, with her mind elsewhere--probably imagining riding a ferris wheel at a carnival--but I assure you, there was nothing smart going on behind those eyes.

"What is this about?" I asked her. As if she would have a coherent answer. "They probably found an error in your taxes." *blink blink* "Right, but this is supposed to be random, and it is the second time it has happened to me." "It happens to me all the time" she said. *blink blink* It was probably the first smart thing she said.

While I make errors a lot in everyday life, like putting liquid dishwashing soap in the dishwasher only to discover that it makes a bubbly mess instead of cleaning the dishes and that only dishwasher soap should go in the dishwasher, I have a hard time believing I consistently fuck up my taxes since I have been doing them on my own since I was 15. There have been two exceptions to this: 1. I fucked up my aunt's taxes, but why would a grown woman trust an 18-year-old who was drunk to do her taxes?
2. After my dad died, my mom never gave me an interest statement from a company for some life insurance money I was supposed to get. When I was 18, I got a lovely certified letter from both the state and federal governments informing me of my tax evasion.

Most importantly, however, is when I screw up my taxes, why do they think I live with my parents? Wouldn't your parents make sure you don't screw up your taxes?  So, shouldn't they change the form to something like "Hey dumbass, we think you screwed up your taxes, so we need a copy to review them for you.  If you could get copies to us quickly, we'll only take about five months to process them."

And that is why I write today.  The girl at the counter, remember, *blink blink* girl, told me that they take about two weeks to process the tax information.  I turned in my taxes at the beginning of February and got an email today telling me they have adjusted my financial aid and that I need to go into the system and reaccept my aid.  So glad I hurried on that cold day in February.

Grocery

Last night, I needed cat litter, and since I was lazy, I went to Albertson's, the rich-man's grocery store. Everything there is more expensive than at Winco--and presumably, the theory is, Winco can keep the cost down by making you bag your own groceries. I am okay with bagging my own if I go to Winco--except for when people block the aisle near the end of the lanes and act as if it your fault for needing to walk by.

However, the whole appeal of the rich-man's grocery store is having everything done for you. The clerk greets you, and sends the groceries down the really short distance to the bagger, usually a young person for whom bagging is their first job, but more than likely, it's the "special person" on release from the group home. Then, the bagger asks if you need assistance to your car, and while I would never let a bagger follow me to my car, just the fact that they ask makes me feel like the trip to rich-man land was worth it. It's like the spa of grocery stores.

Now, at the store I visit, they have about 10 self-checkouts, and they usually have about one human checker working. I don't want to ring up my own groceries at the store. When I was 19 and drunk, the notion was appealing, listening to the beep as I swiped each item across. At nearly 30, the appeal is gone. If I am paying for something, I want there to be a clear clerk/customer relationship, and I want to stand and watch as you sell me my stuff. I want to watch commerce in action. I don't want to interact with machines in rich-man land, but at the rate of 700 customers to one clerk, the machine was the only way to go.

On my way to the store, I remembered I needed cream for my coffee. At the entrance to the store, they had a big cardboard bin full of mini-seedless watermelons. They were huge and $2.99, so I bought one. I also bought some cat treats. To conclude, the total items in my shopping trip were these: 18lb cat litter, cat treats, mini-seedless watermelon, cream.

I am sure you all are familiar with using a self-checkout. Run item across scanner, item must immediately be placed in the "bagging area" or else the light above the scanner turns red, and the machine freezes. I scan as fast as I can; I want out of the store. I am dressed in my pajamas, I am sweaty, and I am covered in cat fur. It's a Sunday night--this is what most cat ladies look like on a Sunday evening.

I scan everything, and finally, the mini-seedless watermelon. Usually, fruit is placed on the scanner, and you punch in a code, and the scanner weighs the fruit and charges you. The mini-seedless watermelons had tags, since they were $2.99 each, and I scanned the tag and placed the mini-seedless watermelon in the "bagging area." Then, the machine froze. Presumably, since the watermelon was about 10 pounds, the machine didn't think it was mini enough. Thief, the red light screams!

The clerk, who looked to be about 17, walked over and said in a very serious tone, "Ma'am, do you remember what item you put in the "bagging area" last?" Um, hello. I have four items. "Yes, it was the watermelon's fault." And as he typed in his code to unlock the machine, he hovered for about 30 extra seconds and scanned my items on the screen and checked them against what I had in the "bagging area," gave me a sneer, and walked back to his post with a watchful glance. What about 18lb cat litter, cat treats, mini-seedless watermelon, cream screams criminal?

He's obviously too young to remember this video, but maybe, just maybe:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrwjiO1MCVs

Fireworks: Day 4 and Day 5, my final days.

Day 4:
I had to touch boob money. A woman, with her boyfriend/baby daddy/husband? in tow came to the register and was short some bills. After giving her enormous right tit a squeeze, she said, "Ah. Found some." She stuck her hand in her cleavage, lifted her right breast with her right hand and grabbed the money from beneath her breast with her left hand. For anyone with breasts, you know that the underside (unless you have petite, skinny-lady, no-kid, nonboobs) of the breast is the most damp part during the summer. S-W-E-A-T-Y! Touching boob money is the equivalent of touching nutsack money. Now, I will admit, I have carried a debit card, cash, and lipstick in my cleavage before, but never, never, did I let such items travel to the depths of the underside. The items always stayed saddled right between the girls. Touching the boob money.

The boob money and mean customers is a reminder of why I will never work in retail again, if I can help it. By the end of the day, I was cranky and sick of customers. I was more irritated with the smart remarks of the "fireworks savant," however:







Within minutes of getting to "work" for the day, my sister's boyfriend (actually fiance) was on my case about my sales techniques, my attitude, blah, blah, blah, teamplayer, blah, blah, harrassing him for using a Starbucks cup to pee in the shipping crate today instead of a soda cup, blah, blah. While he's funny on most days, I was short on nerves to begin with and was hoping since I would be annoyed with "the away team" i.e. the customers, that I wouldn't have to get annoyed with "the home team" i.e. my family.

All turned funny again once he decided he was the "fireworks psychic," that is, look at everyone pulling up in their cars and predict what it was that they were going to buy. His first and last prediction (at least to me) was for an older couple. His products were almost on, but his numbers were way off--fail! By the end of the evening, when he was exercising his "assistant manager pants," I cinched a black trash bag over his head and considered leaving it, but I thought better and took it off.

The highlight was Janey Chao showing up with a box of muffins from Marie Callendar's. They were a hit with everyone:





Alana showed later with her little man and husband in tow, and it was awesome to see her and even cooler to sell fireworks to a bonafide Canadian!

I saw an old customer from the Record Exchange--one I used to make fun of a lot, especially for the time when he tried to return the album he special ordered because it sucked--Mr. Pooky, a tough rap-guy album. I felt bad for all of the years of backstabbing when he bought about $120.00 worth of fireworks. Well, not that bad.

Day 5:
I showed at closing time to help count the left-over inventory.  We went back to my sister's house for a late-night BBQ and to set off all of our fireworks.  Everyone in the neighborhood had illegals, and well, every 4th of July reminds me of when I was a child--a time when my dad fashioned his own fireworks out of tons of gun powder and dynamite.  On one particular fourth, I remember getting burned with falling debris.

As an adult, not a lot has changed:

Glad it's over for the year.

Fireworks Day 2 and Day 3

Fireworks Day 2: It went off pretty easily. I actually enjoyed myself. Stephanie and Jeff May came down with there little one in tow, and it was good to be supported by friends.

I heard a riveting story about how my 16 year-old nephew clogged the bathtub drain with a condom. He decided in his infinite wisdom that the shower was a good place to "try a condom on," and it slid down the drain. After using bottles and bottles of Drano with no results, my sister's boyfriend took the drain apart and found said condom--I don't think he held it in his hands for long--once he figured out what it was, he shouted for my nephew to (I am guessing) "Get his ass upstairs." Moral of the story: showers/bathtubs are not good dressing rooms for trying on prophylactics, and Drano is no match for good old jimmies.

Day 3:
Mic (solo) and Stephanie and David (together) came and bought the same exact things. Thanks, friends for your support.

I studied some GRE vocab words--that was good. I found out that my mom knows about the previous post which features her because my AUNT ROBYN told. Nice going, Dooby.

My sister's boyfriend has been peeing in a cup in the shipping crate because he is too lazy to go pee at the Winco or at the Carl's Jr. I didn't actually catch him peeing in the crate (thank god). But, he went to the Carl's Jr. for a drink today, so maybe he only goes pee in the crate sometimes. I discovered that I wish I could pee in the cup in the shipping crate. I was frightened when I found out he had been peeing in a cup in the crate because earlier in the day there was a Pepsi cup in the crate with a lid, pre-pee talk, and I opened the cup and sniffed it (I thought it was somebody's moonshine they were hiding), but it turns out it was a different cup (phew!).

And I helped this guy:



He made me remember why I don't do retail anymore.
Me: Hi!
Him: Grnnn.
Me: Let us know if you have any questions.
Him: gpshnsoinsngrn.
Me: That'll be $42.39
Him: grnnnrspaonponqtt.
Me: Here's your card back. Can I have you sign this please?
Him: grnrrnrnrlqwtr.

Before I left for the day, my sister arrived and said, "Don't you wish we were skinny? We could dress up in bikinis out here." "Why?" I asked.  "We could sell more."  Me: "I am not dressing up like a slut to sell fireworks."

One more day, then I am done.