I would not be such a grumpus if every customer were as nice as that last guy I just talked to. I have a soft spot for people who go digging for change in their pockets and produce nothing but a well-used red cigarette lighter.

Jesus christ, I don't want to do all these jobs. I would love to just peace out of here right now. So now the boss says will I call the new hire and tell him he got the job and do all that business, which I guess is not so unreasonable, andy after all called me to offer me this job, but I don't want to, it's like one tiny part of the job that I wish they would not add to the heap. I don't want to think about logistics, I am just tired, somebody else do it.

I am prone to these fits of hysterical anger related to job stress. I would almost rather work every day myself than have to train new people and change circumstances.

Also I don't know exactly what it is, maybe my bourgie upbringing saddled me with the assumption that I would find something other than retail work to do after college, isn't that why I always told the therapist I didn't want to kill myself when they asked, because I was vaguely and optimistically interested in college and things after that? And I know intellectually that 1) this is a phase of work and the sheets will smooth out once you ruffle them; and 2) even if this isn't a phase, if this is all I will ever do (my god i hope not), the bourgie upbringing was lying to me, not everyone is destined for greatness, don't be so presumptuous that your brand is anything special.

Ugh I am just tired of standing here.

Did I tell you about my plan to get out next summer? I probably didn't tell anybody except my therapist and my cat or something, so of course you don't know. Thing is, I hate very nearly every single day here, just find it grinding and grating and disappointing -- in myself and the management and the behavior of customers -- and the idea of getting out is seriously the most exciting thing going on in my head for possibly several years. So. August 2011, get used to the sight'a my backside, or a cloud of dust, or an empty porch swing wheeling forlornly on the wraparound, because homegirl is outta here. Only ten months left. Ugh.

Man I hope no one actually reads this blog.

UGH.

Naturally I got here late, just at the crisp of 9:30 when we're supposed to open, despite having left the house at 8:15 which seemed like enough time. Not plenty of time mind you, had I really been trying and thinking about the welfare of the store like it was my goddamn useless baby I woulda left at 8, or even minutes before 8! Such is the devotion necessary to swaddling and keeping safe a crazy house such as this one.

UGH I HATE MY JOB.

The cleaning man who is nearly a thousand years old and very congenial but who I have of course soured to is very keen on saying "Should I open er up?" as he leaves in the morning after his weekly cleaning routine, meaning he is exiting through the front door and is kindly offering to unlock the outer door on my behalf; the only problem being that I am or Sarah is on occasion (most of the time) still setting out money in register trays or fixing pieces of paper in their proper places or god forbid mixing granules of sugar into a sour cup of coffee, and of course my weak protestations to this effect do not deter Cleaning Man Sam, he is just so excited at the prospect of unlocking a door on his very own and being The Guy Who Opens The Store that no gail forcewind will prevent him putting key to lock. I just want to punch that guy in the face. Go out the back door, old man.

And then, new contemplative paragraph, I feel bad being an asshole to the aged cleaning man, his adjective and noun being both factors in that feeling though perhaps moreso the noun as I don't want to be classist, sniffing at the actions of the help so to speak, but in truth we are all in some social subservient service work position here, and also sometimes you just don't like somebody regardless of their social position, so it is.

And I was and perhaps still am a hair's breadth from sending an annoyed and most likely annoying email to be upper-boss to the effect of "Make him stop doing that!!!!" but after all that is unwise I guess because didn't Upper Boss say a while back that part of this job is managing people, duh, and I oughta not be so uncomfortable with that? Didn't?

Ugh. If I were Geena Davis I would tell this job to suck my dick.