How I do the season
by V.E. on December 25th, 2011
filed under personal, spirituality, thoughts, work
So, I work in a retail store wherein Christmas songs are playing nonstop every single day from November 15 until Christmas Day. I don’t dislike Christmas songs, generally speaking, except for “Santa Baby” and “It’s Cold Outside”, but hearing any song over and over and over for any extended period of time is going to make me hate it.
Here’s how I do Christmas where I work. A customer says, “Merry Christmas!” and I say, “You, too!”
A customer says, “Happy holidays!” and I say, “You, too!”
A customer says, “Happy Hanukkah!” and I say, “You, too!” I’m sure you get the idea, here.
I’m not against anyone celebrating their own version of the winter holidays. Seriously, I’m not. And I say it as non-curmudgeonly as I can, which—I admit—after a few hours, isn’t saying all that much. But I honest-to-gods try to be nice about it.
What irritates me is two-fold. First, that people assume I celebrate what they do. That’s… overlook-able, I suppose, since (1) people are afraid of what they don’t understand, (2) they incorrectly assume that everyone is like them, and (3) it’s in the “giving spirit” of the holidays, no matter what words actually came out of their mouths.
Second—less common and more irritating—that when they find out I that I don’t celebrate what they do (let’s just be honest here and say that it only happens with Christmas because it’s never happened with anyone except the Christians) they get offended and either (1) try to convert me on the spot, or (2) immediately tell me that I’m “part of the problem” in the “war on Christmas” (seriously??), or (3) immediately try to guess whatever holiday-of-the-moment I do celebrate and then explain how that’s actually just another way of celebrating Christmas because Jesus is in everyone no matter what.
I mean, really. You think all that is going to get me into the “spirit of the season”? Ugh.
Since before November 15, I have been complaining trying really hard not to complain about the Christmas music, putting up with the ridiculous Santa hats and reindeer antlers, tolerating everyone’s apparent (and, I hope to gods, temporary) lack of taste in clothing (when else, after all, is it acceptable to wear such gauche sweaters and jewelry?), and trying not to be bitter about everyone suddenly being “nice” and “caring” when I would rather just have them be decent all year round instead of hateful the rest of the year and sickly sweet for a month at the end.
So, fine. I’m Scrooge. I’m the Grinch. Whatever. During the holiday season, I just (1) accept presents that are given to me—because who doesn’t like presents?—and (2) try not to strangle anyone.
“Requiem for a Dream” and “Labyrinth”
by V.E. on May 22nd, 2011
filed under personal, recap/review, work
NOTE: This is more the story behind why I watched these two movies in the first place, and why I’m featuring them here together, rather than an actually honest-to-gods review of the material. Fair warning.
At the end of March, one of my coworkers—Nate—and I were closing the store and since it was slowish, we had time to banter back and forth about our lives, at least as much as can be shared in 3-4 minute clips between customers and cleaning.
Somehow, I learned that his longtime girlfriend/fiancée was out of town and he wanted something to do to pass the time. He said he usually watched movies that she didn’t like in situations like this but he couldn’t think of any couple of movies that would go well together.
We got off topic for a while and then one of us (I don’t remember which of us) mentioned something about Jennifer Connelly. I said jokingly that he should watch Labyrinth (wiki) and then Requiem for a Dream (wiki) while his lady was out of town because who doesn’t want to watch the awkward, teenage Sarah Williams “blossom” into the lovely Marion Silver?
“Oh, that’s evil,” he said with a grin on his face. And that was the end of it for a while because we had to deal with Real Work™ and customers, etc.
Since I had been joking, I thought that was the end of it completely, but he’d apparently been mulling it over because when there was another lull, he said, “I’m going to do it. And I’ll bring in the films for you to watch, too.”
I laughed but agreed that, if he watched them, I would watch ‘em, too, and report back. The next couple of days we didn’t work together because of our different schedules, but when we did next, he—as promised—had the films in hand for my viewing pleasure.
He said, “I watched Labyrinth first and then Requiem, so I think you should do the opposite to see if the impressions you get are any different.”
“Out of chronological order?” I asked, meaning I should first watch the film in which the older Connelly stars (Requiem for a Dream), and then the one with the younger actress (Labyrinth).
He grinned. “I think it might be worse that way than how I watched it.”
So, when I finally managed to sit down and take a gander (I watched the two movies back to back on an evening late in March), I realized that the first time I watched Requiem was at the prodding of another Nate, who I was dating at the time I first watched the film (in college). That’s neither here nor there, I suppose, but it was strange and discomforting for a minute or two before I was absorbed in the movie.
Well, here’s my verdict: Yes, it’s worse watching Requiem for a Dream first before Labyrinth. If the movies are watched in order of their production year, it just feels like the teenage character grew up and became a whore. I mean, it’s not pretty, but it happens in real life. But, if they’re viewed in the order I saw them, with Requiem first, it’s practically impossible to watch any of Labyrinth without thinking of that last ‘party’ scene in Requiem. Seriously. It’s a mild mindfuck. If I hadn’t already seen Labyrinth, watching the other one first might’ve ruined it for me; so I’m glad, in retrospect, that I’d already seen both movies.
Dear strange woman…
by V.E. on December 21st, 2010
filed under anime/manga, health, work, wtf
Dear strange woman who didn’t want the “drink” I made you because you thought I was sick because I was wearing a convention bracelet that apparently looks like a hospital bracelet,
YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE.
I do not work in a tiny, corner coffee shop. I work at a place that has a behemoth corporation of coffee behind it. They are also assholes. Do you think, if I was actually too sick to be making drinks, that they would allow me to make drinks?
Also, when have you ever seen a hospital bracelet that wasn’t white? I never have. I’m pretty sure hospital bracelets are white or off-white. And, seriously, if I had been in the hospital, don’t you think the bracelet would be the first thing to come off after I got out? Being sick enough to warrant a hospital visit isn’t exactly something to be proud of. (Unless, of course, I’d overcome cancer or something, but in that case, my theoretical sickness wouldn’t be contagious anyway, so…)
Also, stage whispering over the counter to my supervisor that you’d like your “drink” (and yes, I mean to use the quotation marks; see below) remade because you don’t want to get sick from whatever I have is just going to put her between a rock and a hard place. Sure, she’ll stop that more important thing that she’s doing and remake it for you, and she’ll even do it with a smile on her face because she’s a nice person and being nice to assholes like you is part of the job, but as soon as the door swings shut behind you, we are going to laugh at you and lament the waste of good Chai (from the cup that I made for you). You are the reason this behemoth corporation of coffee is considered so uppity and wasteful; not us.
Sincerely,
Someone who’s not going to cut off her convention bracelet just to appease your sorry ass.
PS: The “drink” you ordered… wasn’t one. I don’t know if you know this, but “six pumps of Chai in a venti cup with ice” isn’t a drink. It’s the beginning of one, yes, but not something I’d give you just for funsies. No milk or anything? Seriously?
I guess I’m happy that I’m needed?
by V.E. on October 9th, 2010
filed under work
So, I apparently have a reputation at work for being able to cover other people’s shifts and come in early or stay late if it becomes necessary. I’m pretty low on the totem pole, but I get the work done and so far no one has complained.
Last Sunday morning, I was working with a group of people during a busy shift and during a lull in the crowd, one of them asked if anyone could cover her shift this Saturday late afternoon (that is, today). One of the other workers was already working then and the others already had plans, so I said I’d check the schedule when I had a break and let her know.
As it happened, I had Saturday off, so I told her I could cover her shift without a problem. The days go by; I get not one, but two phone calls asking me to cover separate shifts on Tuesday, both of which I decline because I know that, including the shift I’m covering on Saturday, I’m not going to have a day off for seven days starting on Wednesday. And, I get called in early on Friday.
Saturday rolls around and I go in to cover her shift. As soon as I step in the door, the supervisor on duty says, “Oh thank God you’re here, V, we’re completely shorthanded.” I put on my apron, clock in, and get to work.
As the two supervisors, the manager, and I dance around each other helping customers and cleaning the backroom, etc., I learn that the manager actually opened the store this morning at 4:45 and hasn’t had much of a break since then. I glanced at the clock shortly after and it was almost 4:30 pm by that time. What the hell? Were we really that shorthanded? Sheesh.
While I’m cleaning up the customer area, the manager tells me that another worker called in sick this afternoon and one of the supervisors will be leaving at 5:30, so after that, it’ll just be the other supervisor and me to close the store.
One supervisor (the one leaving at 5:30) leans over the counter and says, “Yeah, A— called in sick today.”
The manager says, “I said, ‘Call Viannah; she’ll come in.’ And then W— said, ‘She’s already coming in today.’ And I was like, ‘You have got to joking. What are we going to do now?’ So it’s just going to be you two; I’m sorry. Thanks for coming in, though.”
I’m a little slow making customer orders, but still no complaints yet!
Today, I drove
by V.E. on September 7th, 2010
filed under personal, school, work
Sometimes, it’s not worth it to chew through the restraints in the morning.
Today, I had an appointment to meet with my writing professor at the community college I attend (mostly for fun) to go over the new part-time position I’ll be holding for the college’s literary journal, Eclipse. The intern who is leaving was also coming to this meeting to show me the ropes and basically transfer all the paperwork, etc., to me. And, the department secretary (or chair, I’m not sure which) was going to be there to meet me and file all the paperwork and make it official and whatnot. Three people coming together to teach me something. It’d be in my best interest to show up, wouldn’t it?
The appointment was at 9:30 am. I had been planning on taking the bus, but I woke up later than I meant to; still, I wasn’t late yet. If I drove, I wouldn’t be late at all. I had time. For those of you who don’t know me, I don’t drive. I have a disorder called OCD that, in shorthand, prevents me from driving. It’s not that I can’t drive—I do have a license—but, well, I can’t. It’s somewhat complicated, but trust me when I say that getting behind the wheel is a big deal for me.
My sister was still asleep and, though I’m sure I could’ve woken her up and asked her to take me, I thought to myself, This is a good time to test my skills. I have to jump in sometime, right?
I grabbed the extra key from the wall (where we hang our extra keys) and headed out. I knew if I thought about it too much, I’d freak out, so I tried to do what my father says he and my brother do when they drive: be angry. Be angry at other drivers, poor parking jobs, traffic, whatever… so as to distract myself from the monumental task (at least for me) I was about to undertake.
I got in the car and turned the key; the engine sputtered to life, a good sign. I decided to take it slow (ie: avoid the freeway) since I hadn’t driven in, well, a while. I rolled down the hill and to the first stop sign. So far, so good. Turned right, then left at the next stop sign. When I got to the light, I turned on the radio to distract myself.
I thought, This could end up having been a Very Good or Very Bad Idea.
I turned left at the light and eased into a stop at the corner of H— and V—. When the light turned green, I slid through the intersection and headed down toward the college. After Verdugo, it’s basically a straight shot down to campus, so I relaxed a little and took a look around me. I started thinking about the position I was about to inherit (a paying job in my field of work!… even it was only a student job).
Right before I got to the part of the street where V— and L— meet (in front of the Magic Wok, if you know where that is), I glanced to my right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a car roll out of a parking lot—right into the side of my car. There was a huge jolt, like I was playing bumper cars, and then nothing.
My first thought was, Blue sky and spidered windshields.
(That probably doesn’t make sense to anyone, so let me explain briefly. On 31 December 1999, my cousin and I were driving on a hilly gravel road in Texas outside of Austin in a Suburban SUV-type vehicle. The road was really only wide enough for one car, so when another truck came hurtling over the hill in front of us, my cousin (who was driving) swerved to avoid hitting it. He swerved back the other direction to avoid hitting some trees, and we flipped the SUV and landed upside down in a ditch on the other side of the road. I remember looking at the beautiful blue sky through the front windshield, which had cracked to look like a spider’s web.)
When my brain thinks there’s danger, I usually work well until the (immediate) threat has passed, at which time I completely fall apart. That instinct kicked in. I pulled over, put the car in neutral, and got out to wait for the other guy. He immediately pulled to the side (he’d just been pulling out of the parking lot, anyway) and got out with profuse apologies. I looked over my car where he’d hit it—there wasn’t even a dent. Not a scratch. It was practically a miracle. His car wasn’t that much worse off for the wear, either—just a dented bumper, which is exactly what bumpers are for, after all. He was an older man in a fishing hat and coke-bottle glasses; it’s possible he miscalculated the distance between my car the space his car was taking up—I have no idea. We exchanged information and I headed back home; no way was I going to have a break down in my professor’s office in front of people I didn’t even know.
As soon as I got home, I called my professor and tearfully explained the situation. He was sympathetic and, amid my repeated apologies, rescheduled all of us for another time. I sat down immediately to begin writing what happened (just in case something comes of it, which—admittedly—I doubt) when I remembered I’d left something in the car. I headed back out to get it and, for some unknown reason, decided to start the car again. I mean, I guess I was amazed everything was okay and it looked like nothing happened at all, especially because I felt like I was falling apart inside. My reaction was completely disproportionate to the occurrence, it seemed to me, but that didn’t stop me from reacting so.
The car didn’t start. The engine didn’t turn over—not even a sound. Turning the key to the ‘start’ position did… nothing. I started to panic; I’d just killed the car.
Why did I even do that? I thought to myself angrily. It’s not like I want something to be wrong with the car. Maybe it really was too good to be true.
I went back inside, debating what to do. I looked at the clock; it was after 11 am by this time. Shortly, my sister came down dressed for work. Oh no, I remembered, today is her first day of training.
I explained the situation as briefly as I could manage. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Physically, I’m fine,” I said. Then, everything started to rip at the seams in my mind. “It was scary.” I started to cry.
She came over to me and hugged me tight around the shoulders. “We’ll figure it out. As long as you’re okay, we’ll manage.” We headed out to inspect the damage together. She couldn’t see any scratches or dents—as I’d told her. We got in and she turned the key in the ignition; no response.
We went back inside. I called my dad. He was angry. Or rather, he was frustrated with the whole thing. (We’d just had the clutch replaced for almost more than the car was worth, for example, among other things.) This was just another worry on his plate.
“When you tried to turn on the car, did you hold down the clutch pedal?” he asked my sister. She couldn’t remember. “Check the lights,” he said. So, we went out and tried again.
“Are the lights on?” I asked.
“Oh.” She turned them to the ‘off’ position and said, “That might be it, actually. Did you have the lights on when you went down to school?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t mess with the lights,” I said.
My sister headed off to her training with more assurances that we’d figure it out when she (or Mom, or Dad) got home. Since she drove another car, obviously, I was left alone with the dead one.
Well, the day’s not over yet.
20th Amendment
by V.E. on August 17th, 2010
filed under lost/found, work
I found this card on my way to work yesterday on La Granada Way around 1:30 PM local time. (I walk up to Foothill and catch the bus from there to work on days when the bus runs.)
Front (I assume):
It reads “20th amendment.” in orange marker.
Back:
The back is written in black ballpoint pen and reads:
“Lame Duck” session (1933)
(Jan. 20)
The terms of pres. & vice pres. end on
Jan. 20, & of Congress on Jan. 3
instead of in March.
A Wedding, a Funeral, and a Birthday
by V.E. on June 3rd, 2010
filed under personal, thoughts, work
I’m not feeling well.
On Saturday, I attended the wedding of a childhood friend of mine in San Luis Obispo. We were best friends when we were younger; I’d even say she was one of my two best friends around that time. But in high school, I moved away from the church (and have never really been back except to basically pay lip service for my parents) and we grew apart. We had a conversation sometime in college about sex: I said waiting until marriage was probably overrated and she said something to the effect of “Oh, I hope not! I’m waiting for that special night!” which was completely unimpressive to me. After that, we never really spoke. It wasn’t like we weren’t friends or something, we just weren’t in touch.
After high school, she went on to school on a full scholarship in Central California; I went to school primarily on my parents’ dollar in Pennsylvania. She was heavily involved in InterVarsity Christian Fellowship on her campus; on my campus, I was heavily involved in Students for Marriage Equality, a group that worked toward marriage rights for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people. She fell in love with one of her fellow students, who also worked for InterVarsity. They were married on Saturday and at the end of the ceremony, the couple was introduced as “Her-first-name and His-first-name His-last-name”… something that made me sad. I feel as though I have to say goodbye to my friend I knew in childhood because now she’s grown up and has a husband and has even changed her last name to his. It’s like she’s a different person.
I don’t know if she’s really a different person. I haven’t really known her or even had a decent conversation with her since we were thirteen. There were other things about the ceremony that bothered me. I wouldn’t have done it the way they did, but it wasn’t my wedding, so who am I to say? I didn’t like the exaggerated emphasis on God and Jesus Christ, for example, but in the end it was the name thing. But really, what right do I have to say anything to her about my values when I haven’t even pursued a relationship with her in more than ten years? I just hope that their bond is as strong as they professed it to be on Saturday because it would be bitterly humorous to find out one day that they’d divorced. Will she regret her decision to give up her heritage for his? I don’t know. I guess I’ll ask her in ten or twenty years, if I’m still able to get in touch with her then.
Obviously, I’m not super optimistic about the whole thing.
On Tuesday, I attended the funeral of a young man whose parents are heavily involved in my parents’ church. (I think the technical term was “memorial service”, actually, since there was no casket or graveside ceremony.) Death always seems to strike people around me when I feel the most vulnerable, and—at the risk of sounding like it’s all about me—it’s hard for me to handle, even when I didn’t know the person who died at all. I know the family in passing; the youngest child is a couple years older than I am and also married (earlier this year), but the death was the oldest child, a son around 33 or 34. I barely knew the youngest, much less the oldest, and all of my siblings are younger than even I am, so there wasn’t any overlap in our friends with this family’s.
It was not a happy day, to be sure. They talked about celebrating his life, but the middle child, also a son, said it the best: “I wrote something to say, but it’s too scattered. I’m still in shock. I just hope hope hope that God’s promises are true because I want to see you again, brother.” He didn’t say that he believed in God’s promises, or that he was sure his brother was in heaven. He just hoped. And in a situation like that, what can a person do but hope?
It made me think about what I would do if one of my siblings died, what my family would do if I died, and what happens to people whose deaths have no religion attached to them. That is, it never occurred to me before Tuesday that a funeral/memorial service would or could happen in someplace other than a church or religious building. Except maybe an Irish wake; seems like that might happen at a bar. But what if the person is (or his/her relatives are) atheists? Or, at least, not strong adherents to their faith? For my parents’ friends, the choice was obvious because they are involved in a church. But what about people whose entire church-going experience is on Easters and Christmases, if that? I know that other faiths besides Christianity have funeral rites, but my question still stands for less-than-enthusiastic members of those religions, too.
It got me thinking about how I’d want my own funeral to play out, but that might be morbid. It’s for another journal entry anyway.
Today is my twenty-fifth birthday. I have mixed feelings about it. I survived another year, so that’s a good thing, right? Well, I’m finding it hard to pick out the good things in life. I know, I know, my family and friends are good things and all that. Blah blah blah. Honestly, I’m fed up with it. I want to just reboot the game and start over. Someone give me another life so I can replay. It’s hard for me to remember the good parts when all I can think about is what I don’t have. The pressure on me to have a job, pay bills, make something of myself. I feel like I’ll never measure up, like I’ll never be good enough. I don’t even know what I’m comparing against anymore.
Do I really want to go on living the way I have been? No, I don’t think so. But the past isn’t something that lets go easily. I can’t just ignore the credit card bills and loans I’ve built up getting to where I am today, if that’s anywhere at all. I can’t drop everything and move to another state or even another country; my parents would come looking for me. I have friends who expect me to… I don’t know, be friendly with them, I guess. My brother jokingly calls me a recluse, but he’s not that far off, and that’s not a good thing. I don’t drive. I moved home after two years in the greatest city in the world. I have no work, paid or unpaid. I’m attending classes at a community college in the area so that I don’t have to pay my school loans, for Christsakes. I have responsibility without even being truly considered an adult and able to take care of myself.
And, even if I did run away from the past or suddenly fix everything via deus ex machina, what would I be heading toward? I have no life goals at present. In fact, I’m more defined at the moment by what I don’t like than what I do like. I’m not in school trying to get the next degree. I don’t have a job and I’m not really in a rush to change that. I’m not motivated even by the external pressures anymore, like not letting my family down or making sure to pay the bills for this month. I just don’t care.
You know what, Life? Fuck you. Either let me make a living and take the responsibility you’ve given me, or take away the responsibility and let me live without having to worry about it. Seriously, this “young adult” crap, this “oh, you’re too young to really know what you’re doing” shit is grating on my nerves. You can’t have it both ways. Either I’m a fucking adult or I’m not.
And if you ask me? I don’t know which I’d prefer.
