Hall Monitor

In 9th grade, I had a control-freak English teacher, Mrs. Gohla. She wouldn't even let anyone use the potty, unless you cried, like my friend Anna did. 85 min. classes are excruciatingly long when your bladder is stretching.

Other students referred to her as, "The Gohla-Monster." Like Gila monster, I guess. While I was a good student, I was definitely not an ass-kisser. However, I dealt with the Gohla regime by following the rules, or, not getting caught breaking them.

I graduated high school—in the top of my class—over six years ago. I also graduated pre-school without too many incidents and never maimed or killed a baby-sitter.

Today at work, a high end clothing department store, my floor manager said, and I quote,"I'm going home for the day. 45 more minutes of scanning, and then work on signing. And, no standing around or talking. I'm going to have someone come check to see you're working."

As well as after introducing friend or boyfriend to the manager she says, "I'm the manager." Just had to get that out there, didn't you?

Now. Most pof my co-workers and myself are actually OLDER than the manager, but even if we weren't, I really don't think that's anyway to talk to other adults.

Again, I survived babysitters, high school and, oh yeah, college. I think I can handle putting clothes away, giving myself breaks, and carrying on conversations. I wonder if she realizes how ridiculous she sounded? Probably not.

I've been postulating about what would bring someone to act in such a Nazi, "I'm watching you! Eyes and ears everywhere!" sort of mentality.

It's simple: she never got to be hall monitor. No. Really. The control-freakery in people like this starts early, the first chance of power was passed to someone else. In the control-freak's mind, someone inferior. She has an Iago complex. Seeing the rest of us as potential Cassios.

I understand that said person has had a rough personal life, and I surmise that she has lost all sense of control. But taking out anger from personal issues on employees is not only unethical, but also unhealthy. I'm not so much annoyed as I just feel bad for the girl.

Maybe I should bring her a special badge tomorrow?

Stuck It

Imagine Ralphy from the movie, "A Christmas Story," with his tongue stuck to a flag pole, mumbling, "Stuuuuck."

That's exactly how I sounded this morning, only I wasn't stuck to a flag pole; my mouth had frozen shut after 10 minutes of shoveling off my car in the balmy 2 degree weather.

I sat in the drivers seat after trying to reverse, brake, forward, brake and shifting my weight to try and rock the car out of it's parking spot. That's funny. My "parking spot" was on sheer ice surrounded by 5 inches of snow. It was as if I had parked in the middle of Milacs Lake and was about to go ice fishing—from the driver's seat.

Putting the car in park, I looked out the windshield and noticed it was snowing harder than before.

"Stuuuuck." I said, or was it something else.

I got out of the car and went back inside, not caring how cattywampus it looked next to the curb. I had enough snow in my boots to frost bite an army and still couldn't move my mouth.

"Stuuck it." I mumbled and called work.

Pretty embarrassing for a Minnesotan to get her car stuck in the snow, isn't it?

I thought so, too. So, I googled how to get rear-wheel drive car unstuck, and got a multitude of remedies.

None of which I felt like attempting in a blizzard. Not to mention that I don't own snow-chains, have a rope or tree to tie it to (yeah, I read that physics solution, too), have a bag of salt/kitty litter or the patience to get the car unstuck, only to get it stuck again on the unplowed roads.

How a city of 100,000 people functions with only one snow-plow—presumably shared with the neighboring small towns—is beyond me. But if they would like to drive me to work, that'd be swell.

Sure, Blame Me

In my month of retail experiance, I've encountered many a surly customer. Some blame you for not having the ability to slow time, while others think that it's your fault that the jeans seem (haha seam) too short for the designated size of 29 Short. Let me get on the phone here, whoops, dial 9 first, and get in contact Brazlie in Guatemala, who sews—mostly chinsy—denim for 11 cents an hour, and I will see how much he cares.

Even more customers blame sales associates for their malfunctioning printed-from-my-home-shitty-pc e-mail, "10% off shopping pass coupons." Frankly, it's not my freaking fault.

Please talk to Customer Service. What's that? You're on a hurry? You don't have time? And, oh my, you already said that 5 times? I know you already said that 5 times!

I'm giving you a solution to your damned problem. You need not remind me, again, that you're in a hurry.

It doesn't help.

Pumpkin Ball

I've started to refer to basketball as Pumpkin Ball. And, not to bury the lead, let's face it, I hate Pumpkin Ball. Who wants a pumpkin thrown at them anyways? It's scary.

That being said, I've created a list of reasons why I hate basketball. Did you know that my boyfriend's family is in love with basketball? I only bring this up because one, blogging is my only outlet for what should remain unspoken irritations, and two, I will be meeting them again next week. We will probably even go to a pumpkin ball game, too. Not that I have a problem cheering, it's just that high school games don't serve beer, then again it is Montana, so here's hoping.

Reason # 1. The squeaking shoes. Nuff' said.

Reason # 2. The technicalities. So many rules! I always scream at the tv when watching football (Screw you, Favre, but go Vikings). because the reffs won't let them play the game. Basketball is like ballerinas tossing a pumpkin around while doing quantum physics. White board? Seriously?

Reason # 3. It simply isn't violent enough. Basketball was the first sport I played, and I was always sitting out because I fouled out for decking people. I still find myself asking, why can't you knock someone over for the pumpkin?

Reason # 4. Pumpkin Ball lacks any real-life skills or application. At least in football or hockey you learn how to fight? How the hell is putting a pumpkin in a net going to perpetuate humanity? At least throwing and swinging a bat are forms of self-defense.

Reason # 5. Although I respect the athletes and their ability to perform pumpkin ballet or whatever, I do not respect the basketball groupies. They're just annoying. Especially girls who figured they should like a sport, so they chose basketball. Trying to impress boys with specific team allegiance morphed into romanticizing 6'7 basketball players and thus eventually naming pets after their favorite player, i.e., "this is my toy poodle, Colby." Hmm, Colby, isn't that a cheese?

Hating The Process

"Let's see, white, check, female, check, no, I'm not a felon, but if this simple automated application lasts any longer I might just become a felon... diabled? not yet..."

Yes, I just wasted another two hours of my life filling out an, "easy automated job application." And by wasted, I mean that the company will probably never even e-mail much less call me or, hell, even read my damn application. Automated, my ass.

Maybe it's because I use a big-fancy iMac, but every time I try to upload my awesome CV or resume' I receive a, "failed to load" page. No, your server is not too busy, I will not check back later—I'm just too awesome for your server. That's right. I checked that self-confidence box on your "assessment" (which took another 43 minutes and 19 second of my life.

That's ok, though, I'm sure it was precious time I would've spent working for people who do not wish to work. Well, I do wish to work, world.

I want to have the pre-work dread. Then I can yell at myself to be grateful for employment. But, alas, I'm a slave to the automated process...

I'd like to think that most people find me charming and likable, but, it is difficult to see that on a stupid application.
if they won't interview me, how will they become susceptible to my thrall and irresistibility?

Embrace Your Inner Zucchini

Bear is reading a chapter about Logical Atomism in my Twentieth Century Philosophy book and I just made a xylophone out of the zucchini on the counter. Shortly after that, my mom phoned her friend to invite herself and my father over. Without me. Shrug. I'm not at all ashamed that i like to embrace my inner zucchini.

Patrick told me that Bear's English is improving and that he is becoming easier to understand and I said it was because of cultural immersion.. same sort of thing happened with the zucchini—they've become a part of me, literally and figuratively. T'was a fruity transubstanciacion, if you will. Zucchini appears everywhere now, like I'm seeing ghosts or something. Not to mention the kitchen counter space has decreased by 60%.

Four months of this, and I finally figured, if you can't beat em' (or eat em') join em'!

P.S. Two words: Zucchini Beer.

Prose. Political prose.

It's been a while since I've had a good ol' political rant...

GIVE ME BACK MY COUNTRY!

There, I said it.

Take your cussing hammer and sickle and get the cuss out of my country! I hate you, Mr. Obama, I hate you and the cluster-cuss havoc you bring, I hate you with every fiber of my being. Stop spending, stop cussing talking, I hate your pompous voice—actually, wait, keep talking! because every-time you open your mouth, you lose supporters. It's all cussing Milton's devil-esque rhetoric.

We the people, are not stupid. We the people, yes that's right, INDIVIDUALS—who this country is made of— will repeal your stupid socialist healthcare bill. We will win in November. Then we will sleep. Then we will party.