Influential
I spent my evenings last week - and probably for the next couple of weeks - working at my parents' restaurant. They work with a small staff, and one of their employees was in an accident, so I've stepped in to cover her shifts for the time being. Friday night, I learned that I have a greater influence on others than I'd realized.
We're basically a burgers-and-fries place, and evening employees are typically girls in high school, and most evenings five people plus the cook take care of everything, and it's pretty simple to follow. It's a job that requires communicating and paying attention, but there's nothing about it that's hard. There's always downtime, which of course leads to chatting. Often banal, sometimes enlightening chatting.
I take issue with one current employee, who I am going to call B. He is twenty-four, like me, and got his job because he was dating a then-sixteen-year-old employee. (She's now 18. Yes, I still think he's too old for her.) I try very hard not to judge people. Okay, I try very hard to keep my judgment of people to myself instead of saying it out loud (or posting it on the internet). But this kid makes me crazy. We are the same age, but couldn't be in more different places in life. I may not be a pinnacle of success and determination, but I'm educated and I take care of myself. I pay attention to the world around me and maintain a certain level of social awareness. B fits right in with the teenage girls at the restaurant because his maturity level is right on par with theirs. He's not terribly intelligent and also lacks common sense, and he's consistently making that very obvious to those around him. He has a tendency to chatter even more than the teenage girls he's working with.
I think that, both on the surface and deep down, I am a kind person. I make an effort to bring people up instead of putting them down, and I think everyone deserves to be treated with respect. That said, I am intensely mean to B. Beyond the fact that I think he's an idiot and a little gross for dating a girl in high school, every time he speaks I have a single thought: "Shut up." I almost never say the phrase "shut up" - I think it's exceptionally rude - and I think it little more often than I say it. But every single time he speaks, I want to tell him to shut up. Instead, I'm just mean to him. I make passive-aggressive comments, mutter horrible things under my breath that only he can hear, and cut him down in front of the room with regularity. All things that I wouldn't feel compelled to do if he would only keep his mouth shut!
I need to pause here and say that I'm not exactly proud of the things I just wrote.
Typically, I work with only one of my parents at a time, usually my dad, but Friday night, they were both there. We were finishing up for the night when my mom paused to get a drink near where I was standing. "B talks a lot less when you're here," she commented. I was surprised - I still think he talks too much - so I confirmed her statement with my dad and one of the other girls. And it made me think.
Unless we're told, we have no idea how our presence effects those around us. We're very aware of how others make us feel: the friend who puts us at ease, the teacher who makes us feel brilliant, that guy who icks you out a bit. But how does your presence make others feel?
If I were a better person, I might feel bad about what I learned about B. I don't. But it does make me think about how I influence others, and I think B is probably an exception. I'd like to believe that I make others feel better, generally, and that is a goal that I work towards. As a teacher, I will work with teenagers, and substituting puts me in contact with even younger kids, and I think it's important to make every effort to be a good influence in every way.
How do I make you feel? What sort of feelings would you like to elicit in those around you?
Labels: everyday musings, work
Curve
Sunday night, I was called into work a music shift at Giant Bookstore. Our store recently had security cameras installed, along with monitors in the managers' office and one back in the music department. For whatever reason, the view on the music monitor is of the person standing behind the register - rather than on a place in the department that someone standing at the register would have trouble seeing, because that would be far too logical - and I found myself watching...myself.
Egocentric, yes, but six hours spent in the slowest part of the store with nothing interesting to look at but myself meant that I spent a good bit of time doing just that; the way that my skirt fell across my hips, my shiny new hair color, the shape of my calves in kitten heels. And even as I attempted to dissect parts of myself, I kept coming back to the same thought: I'm pretty happy with that girl. I am fairly thin, and though I'm not perfect, I like my shape from most angles. My legs are long in proportion to the rest of my body, my waist is narrow, the curve of my back is pronounced in a way that I tend to envy in starlets (who knew my back did that?), and my behind is kind of cute. I even like the pale tone of my skin and the slight flush I could see on my cheeks.
And this, I found myself thinking, is a proper perspective. To be able to overlook the things I don't love as much in favor of the things that are lovely about me. To think that, push to shove, I am attractive. Eventually, I got tired of looking at myself. Then I read the new issue of
In Style.
Straight back to reality.
Labels: personal growth, work
A Declaration
Today at work, I got my yearly review, a rather glowing review. I got a raise and I was told that the new role that I've been filling really gave me the opportunity to show my strengths. This put me in a fantastic mood, an untouchable mood really.
And so, tonight, as I line my eyes and spritz perfume and let the black dress slide over my hips, I am going to remind myself that having expectations tends to lead to disappointment, and in this mood, I am not in a place to be disappointed. I am going to sip my drinks like a lady, I am going to chat with people whose company I enjoy, and I am going to remember that I don't
need anyone.
I am also not going to let myself think about the fact that if I let myself, I just might like him.
Labels: boys, piano bar, work
Work Appropriate
He glanced at me as I walked by, wheeling a cart full of books and being followed by the customer with whom I had spent thirty minutes shopping. "Do you need help with anything?"
"Actually, would you mind getting me some boxes for these?" I requested, my voice apologetic. I had been going to grab them myself when I had been accosted by another customer.
"Is there anything else you need?" he asked a few minutes later after he delivered the boxes.
"I think we're good. Thank you!" Fifteen minutes later, looking at the boxes that I knew weighed at least half as much as I do, I reconsidered. I called him from the phone next to the register. "Remember when I said I didn't need you any more?"
"Do you mean on the clock or off?" I could see him from where I stood, and there was an evil look on his face.
I laughed softly, biting my lip and wishing that I could fire back one of the inappropriate responses that was on the tip of my tongue. "On," I answered instead. "Would you be willing to do some heavy lifting for me?"
It was his turn to laugh. "Yeah, sure."
We carried the boxes and bags to the lady's car, wished her a good afternoon, and then walked back toward the building together. I was just two steps ahead of him when he tugged on my hair, causing my breath to catch in my throat. "What was that for?" I asked, trying, and I'm sure failing, to keep my voice even.
"I just figured it was appropriate."
Labels: boys, flirting, work
Black Sparkles and Red Nails
Today, for lots of teenage girls, is close to a holiday. The final book in Stephenie Meyer's
Twilight Saga,
Breaking Dawn, is being released at midnight. I, working at a Giant Bookstore and having read the books myself, will be selling the book at midnight. We're having a release party (think Harry Potter) with a prom theme. There will be dresses and dancing and photos and, of course, a King and a Queen. Because of all the hard work that has gone into the planning of this party, I have found myself really getting into the spirit, against my natural instinct to shy away from such things.
It started a couple of weeks ago when I headed back to Small Town for the weekend. Anticipating the party - and the fact that we had all agreed to dress up - I dragged the dress I wore to my junior prom out of the closet. Black with a sparkly bodice and a swishy skirt, I realized that I'm still pretty fond of it. The fact that it laces up the back means that I can actually still wear it, despite the weight I've gained in the last two years.
After listening to one of the managers talking about the books as she read through them, I found myself going back and reading passages, starting sometime last week. It reminds me of being seventeen. I try not to think about the angst that being seventeen seemed to bring with it.
This morning, thinking about what I was going to wear to work and how the logistics of changing from work clothes into the prom dress was going to work, I found myself thinking on at theme. Everything I'm wearing today is black or gray, with bits of red thrown in for fun. I painted my nails, appropriately, blood red. The batteries for my digital camera are charging. I am, admittedly, rather excited, despite the fact that I'm already sleepy and will being going non-stop from 5 pm till 2 am. And likely beyond.
Just don't tell the cool police. I can't afford bail this week. I have a book to buy.
Labels: books, my insanity, work
Playing the Hand You Get
When Guy From Work (GFW) transferred into the Giant Bookstore where I work last July, I was still a newbie. I was still thinking about not looking like a moron when a customer asked me about a book that I wasn’t yet familiar with, or wanted me to take them to something that I didn’t actually know how to find, so the fact that he was a male within the acceptable age bracket didn’t really register. I knew that I wanted him to find me attractive, but I want most males to find me attractive. I knew that I didn’t want him to think I was annoying or unintelligent, but I don’t really want anyone to think these things about me. It was mid-October when I hit the turning point. Rather, my subconscious hit a turning point.
I am a very deep sleeper, and I’m always rushing when I wake up in the morning, so I rarely remember my dreams. I woke up on that Sunday morning, however, well before the alarm, all worked up over the rather naughty dream I had just had. About GFW and I, pressed up against some books in the children’s section doing wildly inappropriate things. Since I had never really seen him in that light, I had to pause to realize that he was, in fact, rather attractive. I spent that entire day at work alternately avoiding him and trying to put myself discreetly in his way. Basically, my entire work life changed. My clothes, my hair, my makeup – each of this things became markedly more important, as was the attitude I was giving off.
He was a very quiet guy, and not exactly the most friendly looking. The possibilities were numerous. He was shy. He was one of those quietly arrogant men. He was mean. He found me repugnant. You see where I’m going. Still, he would make these quiet little comments that let me know that there was something worth knowing about there, so I continued to observe him from afar.
By spring break in March, I was so exhausted from student teaching and working that had stopped caring what almost everyone at the bookstore thought about me. My attitude sucked and the filter that I had kept so carefully in place for the first six months was completely shot. I was more snarky, more foul-mouthed, and generally more unpleasant. Additionally, I was more inclined to have fun on the weekends as I watched the last few months of my college career slip away into a haze of
Romeo and Juliet, mouthy teenage boys, and dressy clothes. One night while a few of us were drinking at Gallagher’s apartment, GFW included, and I had imbibed a bit more than was advisable, I told him about the dream. There was no pretense or shame, and he seemed amused by the entire situation.
From then on, it was fair game. He, Gallagher, and I started spending more time together after her birthday in mid-April, hanging out in bars and our apartments, enjoying alcohol and one another’s company. This was also about the time that he announced that he was returning to his hometown in Arkansas. He wasn’t finding what he was looking for in College Town. My countdown to graduation also became a bit of a countdown for his leaving.
There was a brief interlude between he and Tall Girl, during which I completely removed myself from the mix. Once that ended, I wasn’t entirely sure how to approach the situation, until the night before he was due to complete all of his moving and leave town for good. There was a ridiculous exchange of text messages which ended with the fabulously appropriate, “Let yourself in.”
I did. We enjoyed ourselves, he gave me the best ego boost ever, and we decided that there was no way there could be awkwardness between us in the future. Then I left.
I only wish that he was still in College Town to hang out at the bars. And a little bit for that thing he did....
Labels: boys, flirting, work
Do I Look Mean to You?
Today I spent five hours at work shelving books. Shocker, right? Nic, you do work in a bookstore. Yes, yes, but up until a few weeks ago, my job did consist of a little bit more than just shelving books. Now this is apparently all that I'm good for.
Our district manager was in the store - with the Store Manager, Speedy - helping to prepare for the Regional Manager's visit. This is a big deal for reasons that are beyond me. As long as we sell books and aren't a drain on the company as a whole, we must be doing things right. Right? I guess people worry about these things. So I'm walking through the store, being my short, efficient self, when Speedy waves me over.
"So, District Manager asked me if you were friendly earlier. And I said 'yes, why?' Do you know what he said?"
"No, Speedy, I don't know what he said." (I was a bit annoyed that I had to talk to him; Speedy is not my favorite person of late.)
"He said that he'd been in here all day and you hadn't said hi to him yet."
"He is lying like a hooker!" I look around to make sure that I didn't say that in front of any customers. The fact that I said it in front of Speedy doesn't register at all. "I did too say hi to him!"
"Did you really?"
"Yes!"
"Okay! I believe you! Maybe he just forgot."
I move to walk away. Speedy stops me. "Just don't say anything to him about it."
I look at him strangely. "Okay...." Generally, I couldn't care less what District Manager thinks about me. He doesn't control my paycheck or my hours, and it isn't like I'm looking to move up in the company. Who gives a rat's ass if he thinks I'm not friendly?
Twenty minutes later I came around the end of a shelf and almost walked into District Manager. I pasted my biggest cheerleader smile on my face and said "HI!"
I then considered going directly to the liquor store after I left work.
Labels: everyday musings, work
Nic is a Big Meanie
The majority has spoken, therefore you get to read about exactly why I have a reputation at work for being a bitch. However, as I wrote this, I decided that I don’t find it terribly interesting once written, so I wouldn’t really recommend it. I'm certain that I could come up with a better story of my bitchiness, but whatever. You have been warned.
I’ve had the same job at my parents’ restaurant for almost six years, which means that I can do just about anything there better than anyone except my mother. Since going to school, I only work on breaks and when I come home on weekends (which is when I start to get low on funds). This is where I insert the disclaimer:
I understand that it must be disconcerting to start a job and get used to your co-workers only to have some strange new girl come in and point out when you’re making mistakes. On top of that, the bitch is your bosses’ daughter, so you can’t say anything.
This isn’t a difficult job. It’s a lot of stuff to remember at first, buit as far as I’m concerned, after two weeks or so things should start to click and be much easier.
I have no idea when The Moron started, but I know she was there when I came home for Thanksgiving, and she is certainly earning her name. Last Thursday night, I went to work in a weird mood, the beginning of a funk—one of those moods that is quickly turned into flat-out bitchiness. The Moron has a tendency to hover and stare when she has a questions instead of just asking, and it seriously annoys me. In an effort to avoid eating her face, I asked her nicely to please just speak up. She did twice before returning to the hover-and-stare method.
I was annoyed.
She made all of the drinks on an order the wrong size. She hover-and-stared until I gave her explicit instructions on how to correct the mistake. (Pour the drinks in the proper sized cups, then add more liquid until they’re full enough.)
I was irritated.
She ignored a customer waiting to be helped, forcing me to stop what I was doing to wait on them. (Your job is to wait on people, not walk away when they come in the door.)
I was angry, and at this point I was slamming around and not talking to anyone, including my father. He told me that he was tired of my attitude, which only made me angrier.
We were cleaning before we closed, and while I was scrubbing away ice cream spots and sticky Dr. Pepper (which is cathartic), The Moron was chatting and listlessly dabbing at a counter with a sponge. An order that she was capable of making came in. She ignored it.
I was pissed. I told her about it. I was not quiet. I was not nice. I was not polite. I was not tactful. I told her the truth, and the truth often hurts.
I made the order and wiped down everything in the restaurant myself. She avoided me, and I noticed how shiny her eyes were when we were cleaning floors, our last chore before leaving. The idea that she was almost crying gave me sense of accomplishment, securing my room in the third level of Hell.
When I got to work on Friday, a co-worker stopped me to tell me that she had fun information about The Moron, which meant that it was something negative about her that would amuse me. Apparently she told someone at school that morning that she couldn’t wait until I went back to school, and that if I wasn’t leaving soon, she would have quit that night.
I believe that the joy that I experienced at this revelation upgraded my room in Hell to a suite, complete with a Jacuzzi and a lovely view of the fiery lake.
Labels: my insanity, work
Missing in Action, You Say?
Indeed, missing in action. While I wouldn't exactly call it being sick, I've felt like shit for the last few days. I'm going to blame it on Bradshaw.
Right before I left College Town for home, she came down with a flu and a head cold that she got from two of her roommates. Since I typically have a fantastic immune system (to go with my iron stomach and nearly un-bruise-able* skin), I didn't worry about it. I should have.
Tuesday, everything I ate made me just a little bit nauseous. Not enough to make me stop eating, but enough to make me think about it. When I got home from work that night it was worse, so I went to bed early for me.
Wednesday, I woke up. I wandered through the house for an hour. I took a two-hour nap. I spent my day lying on the couch, watching Gilmore Girls DVDs and wondering at the fact that I had absolutely no appetite. Took an hour nap. Greeted the parents when they returned from last-minute Christmas shopping. Ate chicken soup. Took a three hour nap. Watched TV. Went to bed.
I woke up yesterday and thought that I felt fine. It was my parents' anniversary, so my mom made up a story that led to my dad not working and them eating dinner in a city far bigger than Small Town. That left Mickey and I in charge of the restaurant, nothing we can't handle.
Until Nic over-exerts herself and almost passes the fuck out.
Twice.
That's right, once I got to work and starting moving around, I realized just how shitty I still felt. My back hurt, I still had absolutely no desire to even look at food (a hazard when working at a restaurant), I was weak, and the more over-heated I got, the dizzier I got. After the second time I almost passed out, I went to sit in the back and didn't do another single thing the rest of the night but whine about how shitty I felt. I came home, forced myself to eat something (fighting nausea with every bite), and then felt fine.
Well, fuck.
So now, as I type this, I feel fine. I'm going to try to work tonight, although the fact that I still have no appetite doesn't bode well for the evening.
Again: Fuck.
*That's right, I made up a word. Deal with it.
Labels: updates, work
