Monday, February 21, 2005
Petty Theft.
When I was in high school working for the Half Off Card Shop, my manager got fired for stealing. R had crazy red hair, talked to herself and was convinced that her ex-husband was stalking her out in the parking lot. The night that she got fired, she took boxes of files and disks and threw them in the dumpster behind the store. Then she poured lighter fluid on the records and torched everything.
It's been years, but I'm pretty sure that I didn't see her after that. We never really learned what she stole, but it couldn't have been worth losing her job. I mean, it was a card shop. The most valuable product was the Manheim Steamroller CD we had sitting on the counter top. Who would want to steal that?
In my three years working on the marketing side of retail, my company has fired a handful of people. They usually get fired for one of two reasons: they don’t show up to a shift, or they steal from the company. One guy used to scratch off instant lottery tickets. It wasn't until he'd scratched over $12,000 in product that his co-workers ratted him out. And not to generalize here, but, well, the younger, newer people are the ones that get fired for not showing up to work, while the older ones, the ones that are in higher positions and have been around forever, "move on" because of theft.
I don't get it. I can't imagine why someone in a leadership position would want to jeopardize his or her job by walking off with petty cash, a case of Mother's Day Cards or a carton of cigarettes. That's something that you do when you're young, when you can write it off as the stupidity of youth. I guess when it comes down to it, they just don't really like their jobs. Maybe it's just easier to get fired than to quit.
The weird thing about R and the dumpster is that the company never said anything to us. One day, she was gone and the dumpster was charred. It was like she never existed.
When I was in high school working for the Half Off Card Shop, my manager got fired for stealing. R had crazy red hair, talked to herself and was convinced that her ex-husband was stalking her out in the parking lot. The night that she got fired, she took boxes of files and disks and threw them in the dumpster behind the store. Then she poured lighter fluid on the records and torched everything.
It's been years, but I'm pretty sure that I didn't see her after that. We never really learned what she stole, but it couldn't have been worth losing her job. I mean, it was a card shop. The most valuable product was the Manheim Steamroller CD we had sitting on the counter top. Who would want to steal that?
In my three years working on the marketing side of retail, my company has fired a handful of people. They usually get fired for one of two reasons: they don’t show up to a shift, or they steal from the company. One guy used to scratch off instant lottery tickets. It wasn't until he'd scratched over $12,000 in product that his co-workers ratted him out. And not to generalize here, but, well, the younger, newer people are the ones that get fired for not showing up to work, while the older ones, the ones that are in higher positions and have been around forever, "move on" because of theft.
I don't get it. I can't imagine why someone in a leadership position would want to jeopardize his or her job by walking off with petty cash, a case of Mother's Day Cards or a carton of cigarettes. That's something that you do when you're young, when you can write it off as the stupidity of youth. I guess when it comes down to it, they just don't really like their jobs. Maybe it's just easier to get fired than to quit.
The weird thing about R and the dumpster is that the company never said anything to us. One day, she was gone and the dumpster was charred. It was like she never existed.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Turn the Cheek.
We're on the couch, watching the most recent two episodes of 24, a show that I'd describe as "kind of like Alias but more republican and less sex." This show is The Boy's passion. When he can't watch it, he gets antsy and irritable, much like I am in the short amount of time that it takes for me to apply a fresh patch to my shoulder. We all have our vices.
I'd never seen the show before; last night was my maiden voyage. He spent roughly half an hour explaining the plot to me so that I wouldn't ask questions during the show.
The show was good, and I was disappointed in myself for getting sucked into it so easily. Mainly because I knew I'd want to see it again, and I generally leave room in my life for one television drama a week. (Right now, it's Desperate Housewives.)
I wait a few seconds after the final minute of the show, lean into him and lazily say, "Seems pretty boring to me." This, of course, is a lie, and I prepare myself to tell him so, just in case he actually believes me. I never get to give my explanation because his response was not a defensive retort about how the show is easily one of the best shows he's ever seen on television.
Instead, his response is to wave his hand over his mouth and wrinkle his nose at my breath. Although I'd been popping mints for roughly four days straight, somehow keeping my mouth shut for two hours caused my breath to become rancid.
I jolt back in surprise, not quite sure what to think. I'm embarrassed, self-conscious and a little irritated that he chose to resort to a gesture made famous by 1980's mouthwash commercials. He's silent for a second and then speaks up.
"Do you have any cavities?" he suggests. He's looking for a cause for the breath thing. Something to ease my mind. It's not me; it's the cavities.
But I don't have cavities. My mind starts to race. Do I always have bad breath? Is he the only one who had the guts to tell me? Do people talk about me as Jill With the Breath, in the same way as I talk about Greg The Close Talker and Mark Who Spits when He Talks? Does The Boy just have highly sensitive olfactory senses? Is it just that I never keep my mouth shut for two hours in a row?
These thoughts wander through my head the rest of the evening, as he decides that I'm pissed at him, and tries to explain himself. "I'd want people to tell me..."
I reassure him that I'm not pissed, just embarrassed, and get ready to leave. He walks me to the door and we hug. And then I turn my cheek to him and he kisses it. As I drive all I want is go home and brush my teeth, that, and to know what's going to happen next week on 24.
We're on the couch, watching the most recent two episodes of 24, a show that I'd describe as "kind of like Alias but more republican and less sex." This show is The Boy's passion. When he can't watch it, he gets antsy and irritable, much like I am in the short amount of time that it takes for me to apply a fresh patch to my shoulder. We all have our vices.
I'd never seen the show before; last night was my maiden voyage. He spent roughly half an hour explaining the plot to me so that I wouldn't ask questions during the show.
The show was good, and I was disappointed in myself for getting sucked into it so easily. Mainly because I knew I'd want to see it again, and I generally leave room in my life for one television drama a week. (Right now, it's Desperate Housewives.)
I wait a few seconds after the final minute of the show, lean into him and lazily say, "Seems pretty boring to me." This, of course, is a lie, and I prepare myself to tell him so, just in case he actually believes me. I never get to give my explanation because his response was not a defensive retort about how the show is easily one of the best shows he's ever seen on television.
Instead, his response is to wave his hand over his mouth and wrinkle his nose at my breath. Although I'd been popping mints for roughly four days straight, somehow keeping my mouth shut for two hours caused my breath to become rancid.
I jolt back in surprise, not quite sure what to think. I'm embarrassed, self-conscious and a little irritated that he chose to resort to a gesture made famous by 1980's mouthwash commercials. He's silent for a second and then speaks up.
"Do you have any cavities?" he suggests. He's looking for a cause for the breath thing. Something to ease my mind. It's not me; it's the cavities.
But I don't have cavities. My mind starts to race. Do I always have bad breath? Is he the only one who had the guts to tell me? Do people talk about me as Jill With the Breath, in the same way as I talk about Greg The Close Talker and Mark Who Spits when He Talks? Does The Boy just have highly sensitive olfactory senses? Is it just that I never keep my mouth shut for two hours in a row?
These thoughts wander through my head the rest of the evening, as he decides that I'm pissed at him, and tries to explain himself. "I'd want people to tell me..."
I reassure him that I'm not pissed, just embarrassed, and get ready to leave. He walks me to the door and we hug. And then I turn my cheek to him and he kisses it. As I drive all I want is go home and brush my teeth, that, and to know what's going to happen next week on 24.
Friday, February 04, 2005
It's Over.
I'm revisiting an old fling. I can't classify our past meeting as a relationship, because we were only together for two weeks. I must admit that it was a good two weeks, but I broke things off.
Today I walked into CVS and asked the pharmacist, a 23 year-old girl with glitter around her eyes, where I could find the stop smoking aids. They were out of a pill called "smoke away", so I settled on my old fling - Nicoderm.
The quitting thing wasn't a New Year's Resolution. I hate to admit it, but it's more of a convenience factor. Except for a few places like the Treebar and the Bucket (my after work happy hour joint) I can't smoke anywhere in Columbus. And baby, it's cold outside. Plus there's the fact that I'm just not surrounded by a myriad of smokers anymore. Alex quit a year ago. The Boy stopped smoking before I met him. Most of my girlfriends have never smoked and my favorite work smoking buddy moved to San Francisco.
Also, it's kind of gross.
So I armed myself with a bottle of water, copious amounts of mints and the patch.
The Boy introduced me to the mint factor. My last time around, I searched for the perfect candy and had troubles. I don't do gum, because I chew too hard and inevitably bite the side of my mouth. A sore jaw and the taste of blood aren't the best incentive to quit smoking. I don't like hard candy and chewy stuff gets stuck in my teeth. But mints are long lasting, not ultra-sweet and give me lovely fresh breath. Perfect.
Nicoderm and I have only reunited for about an hour now, but it's going well, so far. I'll try not to give up so easily this time, to stay committed. And like a true friend (a true friend that hangs out with me for roughly $40.00 a week) it doesn't seem to be miffed that I screwed up the first time around.
It might be easier this time. Perhaps I'll grow to appreciate the rashes on my arm, the tingly feeling on my arm, the fuzziness in my head. It won't last long. But the side effects are small compared to the alternative.
I want to be able to enjoy a meal without wishing it would be over so I can stand outside in the February wind, alone, puffing away at a cigarette. They just aren't very good company. And they sure as hell don't keep me warm.
I'm revisiting an old fling. I can't classify our past meeting as a relationship, because we were only together for two weeks. I must admit that it was a good two weeks, but I broke things off.
Today I walked into CVS and asked the pharmacist, a 23 year-old girl with glitter around her eyes, where I could find the stop smoking aids. They were out of a pill called "smoke away", so I settled on my old fling - Nicoderm.
The quitting thing wasn't a New Year's Resolution. I hate to admit it, but it's more of a convenience factor. Except for a few places like the Treebar and the Bucket (my after work happy hour joint) I can't smoke anywhere in Columbus. And baby, it's cold outside. Plus there's the fact that I'm just not surrounded by a myriad of smokers anymore. Alex quit a year ago. The Boy stopped smoking before I met him. Most of my girlfriends have never smoked and my favorite work smoking buddy moved to San Francisco.
Also, it's kind of gross.
So I armed myself with a bottle of water, copious amounts of mints and the patch.
The Boy introduced me to the mint factor. My last time around, I searched for the perfect candy and had troubles. I don't do gum, because I chew too hard and inevitably bite the side of my mouth. A sore jaw and the taste of blood aren't the best incentive to quit smoking. I don't like hard candy and chewy stuff gets stuck in my teeth. But mints are long lasting, not ultra-sweet and give me lovely fresh breath. Perfect.
Nicoderm and I have only reunited for about an hour now, but it's going well, so far. I'll try not to give up so easily this time, to stay committed. And like a true friend (a true friend that hangs out with me for roughly $40.00 a week) it doesn't seem to be miffed that I screwed up the first time around.
It might be easier this time. Perhaps I'll grow to appreciate the rashes on my arm, the tingly feeling on my arm, the fuzziness in my head. It won't last long. But the side effects are small compared to the alternative.
I want to be able to enjoy a meal without wishing it would be over so I can stand outside in the February wind, alone, puffing away at a cigarette. They just aren't very good company. And they sure as hell don't keep me warm.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
No Leftovers Here.
I'm the queen of impulse purchases. For last weekend's dinner party, I decided on a whim that I'd buy gerbera daisies to decorate the table. After I lugged two capons, ten pounds of tomatoes and various fresh herbs out to my car, I returned to the store to pick up two arrangements and half a dozen loose daisies. The decision was easy; I wanted color in the room.
The same goes for my 1940's-style apron. I wanted an apron, so I ordered one. I had no buyer's remorse when the mailman delivered my hand-made checkered apron directly from a tiny town in Utah. I immediately put on the apron and started pulling necks and spleens out of the cavities of the capons. Yummy.
But for some reason, I cannot seem to buy disposable tupperware. I know I need it. Putting plastic wrap on top of pots in the refrigerator is not very effective. I've been doing it for years, and no matter how tightly I wrap it, the macaroni still molds and half a meal goes to waste. It's not the cost that's holding me back, either. That Gladware stuff is cheap. And with it being disposable and all, I know that the commitment attached to owning tupperware is gone.
Sarah and I went through the aisles of a chain grocery the other evening, searching for Play-doh for her pre-school class. As we walked past the toilet paper and aluminum foil, I paused in front of the Gladware.
"I've been thinking about buying this stuff for a few months, now," I said.
"Shouldn't we get Ziploc bags, instead?" she asked.
The decision was too much. I'm lucky enough to be able to afford the containers AND the bags, but for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to grab the stuff from the shelves.
"Oh," I sighed, "I'll get them another day. I don't want to make a hasty decision."
She seemed to understand, even though the whole concept was ridiculous. "You don't want to do something you'll regret."
There's an old family story about how my father went to the grocery store to buy toilet paper and was gone for an hour. His reason? He couldn't decide what toilet paper to buy. But at least he came back with toilet paper. I left the store empty-handed.
I'm still trying to figure out what my problem is. It's not like I'm buying a car or choosing a hair color or something. They're just clear plastic containers with light blue lips that make a popping sound when they close.
The people on the commercials look so happy. I want to be that happy. One of these days I'm going to open up my heart to the wonders of disposable tupperware.
Then my life will be complete.
I'm the queen of impulse purchases. For last weekend's dinner party, I decided on a whim that I'd buy gerbera daisies to decorate the table. After I lugged two capons, ten pounds of tomatoes and various fresh herbs out to my car, I returned to the store to pick up two arrangements and half a dozen loose daisies. The decision was easy; I wanted color in the room.
The same goes for my 1940's-style apron. I wanted an apron, so I ordered one. I had no buyer's remorse when the mailman delivered my hand-made checkered apron directly from a tiny town in Utah. I immediately put on the apron and started pulling necks and spleens out of the cavities of the capons. Yummy.
But for some reason, I cannot seem to buy disposable tupperware. I know I need it. Putting plastic wrap on top of pots in the refrigerator is not very effective. I've been doing it for years, and no matter how tightly I wrap it, the macaroni still molds and half a meal goes to waste. It's not the cost that's holding me back, either. That Gladware stuff is cheap. And with it being disposable and all, I know that the commitment attached to owning tupperware is gone.
Sarah and I went through the aisles of a chain grocery the other evening, searching for Play-doh for her pre-school class. As we walked past the toilet paper and aluminum foil, I paused in front of the Gladware.
"I've been thinking about buying this stuff for a few months, now," I said.
"Shouldn't we get Ziploc bags, instead?" she asked.
The decision was too much. I'm lucky enough to be able to afford the containers AND the bags, but for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to grab the stuff from the shelves.
"Oh," I sighed, "I'll get them another day. I don't want to make a hasty decision."
She seemed to understand, even though the whole concept was ridiculous. "You don't want to do something you'll regret."
There's an old family story about how my father went to the grocery store to buy toilet paper and was gone for an hour. His reason? He couldn't decide what toilet paper to buy. But at least he came back with toilet paper. I left the store empty-handed.
I'm still trying to figure out what my problem is. It's not like I'm buying a car or choosing a hair color or something. They're just clear plastic containers with light blue lips that make a popping sound when they close.
The people on the commercials look so happy. I want to be that happy. One of these days I'm going to open up my heart to the wonders of disposable tupperware.
Then my life will be complete.
