Nudity is Only Skin-Deep

I kept waking up in the middle of the night, struggling against sleep to get up and make the sandwich for the poor customer who'd been waiting by the sandwich bar so very patiently.

Then, as I was about to push myself out of bed I'd realize, what the fuck? I'm in bed in the middle of the night. I don't need to make anyone any godddamned sandwich!

Today is my last day. Last day. LAST DAY! Yeehaw!

A couple of somewhat interesting things happened at work over the past couple of days.

One regards a co-worker, Julia. Over the past month and a half, she went home early for about a third of her shifts. She has epilepsy, and suffers from several different types of seizures. She also has some sort of throat polyp, which occasionally swells up and makes speech painful or impossible.

Or so she says.

The night before last, she approached me while I was on break.

"Do I look as bad as I feel?" she asked.

"Uh, actually, you look pretty good. Why? What's wrong?"

"I don't know. My stomach really hurts, I have diarrhea, my head is spinning, and my arm is numb and tingly. I'm going to go in to the emergency room."

"Oh wow. That's pretty bad. Maybe you've got a flu."

And so off she went to the hospital.

About two hours later, one of our regular customers came in and ordered a sandwich. While I made the sandwich for her she asked, "I thought Julia worked this shift."

"She's feeling sick, so had to leave early."

"Oh. That's interesting," she said. "She's at bingo."

Hmmm....

Fast forward to last night when Julia walks into the store halfway through her shift in street clothes, then informs the supervisor that she won't be coming into work anymore.

She just up and quit without notice.

There were a couple of times when I was feeling ill (like that time my foot was so very painful that even standing put me on the verge of tears) and put in a request to go home early, but Julia put in a request afterwards, saying that she felt like she was going to have a seizure. Seizures win out over any ailment I may have had (which is perfectly understandable). But now I can't help but wonder if she was faking those, too.

Some of what happened yesterday was just plain entertaining, though. There was the man with the handmade purse saddle bag made of saddle leather with a really great brass clasp. I commented that I have a bag almost exactly like it, and that started him up. His came from New Brunswick, he said. Well, so do I....

And the next thing I knew, he was singing made-up songs about coffee and purses and telling me how people at the Shakespeare festival in Stratford were offering him $600 for his saddle bag.

He was getting weirder and weirder by the moment. I smiled, nodded, made him his coffee, and busied myself with all sorts of coffee shop tasks to appear too busy to converse with him further. But that didn't end matters. He took a seat at a distant table, and sang to me from across the store.

And then there's Barnie. He's a co-worker of mine, and was covering me on my break. He's a nice guy, and very quiet. As I showed up from the end of my break, he had just started up two pots of coffee. He saw me, then went over to drive-through so I could resume storefront work. A few moments later, I heard another co-worker yell, "Omigosh!"

Barnie had neglected to put a pot under one of the filters, and coffee was pouring inexorably onto the counter and floor.

Later on, I saw Barnie and said, "Next time you start some coffee up, you might want to consider putting a pot under it."

The look on his face was priceless, and I got to hear the normally quiet boy guffaw loudly, with a huge, incredulous grin.

Oopsie!

Oh yes, and then there was the moment when a customer came up to me, said, "Yeah, I'd like a large .... Shantell?!?!?!"

I looked up, and we both did literal double-takes, with the stereotypical slight backward stagger and all. It was Babs, an old friend of mine from New Brunswick who I hadn't seen for about a decade. So who knows? He might be showing up at my party tomorrow, too.

Small world, ain't it?

Link time!

Custom MP5-K: I'm no gun nut, but this is gorgeous.

The Children's Crusade: Funniest IM transcript I've seen in ages. Fundamentally different from my own ICQverts.

Farce of the Penguins: "What Happens In Antarctica... Stays in Antarctica." Featuring Samuel L. Jackson. Oh yeah, baby!

Monocopter: Looks heavy and unwieldy, but oh-so-fun!

Pennsylvania letter carrier attacked by squirrel is taken to hospital: "'In about 230 years of postal history, I bet it is not the first, but I've personally never heard of another squirrel biting,' said Steve Kochersperger, spokesman for the Erie district" (thanks, gha5t).

Now for some much-needed dance drills....

I'm in a house haunted by a violent, terrifying ghost. I walk with utter trepidation, as I know this ghost relishes scaring people to death. Slowly, step by step, I creep my way through the hallway. Finally, I happen upon a closet. I look inside, and there is the ghost. He's watching tv, and is completely unaware of me.

A sharp and unintended sudden gasp comes from me, and it scares the (un)living shit out of the ghost, who screams and vanishes.

Later on, I feel really bad because I find out the ghost has summarily been voted out of the haunted house by Simon Cowell.

Then I wake up.

-------

Work was mostly uneventful, but here's an example of one of the not-so-nice customers I get.

I finished my lunch break and came out to the counter. There was a small line-up, so I went to the other cash. "Can I help you?" I asked an elderly man standing in the queue.

The man sauntered up, smiled, and said, "I knew if I waited here long enough that someone would eventually help me."

There had been only one person ahead of him, and that person was only getting a coffee, so he hadn't been waiting long. I smiled noncommittally at him.

"Can I take your order?"

"I'd like a bowl of chili, and nothing else."

"I'm really sorry, sir, but we're out of chili at the moment. Is there something else I can get you?"

"What? You're out of chili? But you're always supposed to have some." He was still smiling.

"Unfortunately, the last batch was was burnt, so a new one was put on. I'll go find out how far along it is for you, though." So I went back to the kitchen where the reconstituted freeze-dried chili was only halfway liquefied.

"Sorry, sir, but it's not going to be ready for quite a while. Is there anything else I can get you?"

"No. I'm afraid I'm just going to have to take my business to the other Tim Horton's." He paused meaningfully. "Your competition."

My inner voice said, "Oh, fuck off. Do you think my hard-worked-for minimum wage lets me give a shit about where you eat your freeze-dried, reheated chili, you passive-aggressive old shit?"

But my outer voice said, "Sorry about that, sir. Have a nice day."

And you know what? I meant it. I hope he got his chili and liked it. Maybe it'll make that smile of his genuine, instead of camouflage for a nasty personality. But I sure as hell don't care if he ever buys so much as a Timbit from my store.

Oh yeah. I made one dollar and two cents in tips today. Woohoo!

I gave my notice. I feel sorry for the manager. The place is understaffed, and it just got worse with my retirement. The manager looked like she wanted to cry. She wants me to stay on part-time, but that would just be silly when I could make more money doing part-time work through a temp agency from time to time. She may have talked me into working one extra day, though.

I got to come home an hour early tonight because it was creepingly slow at work. But no one's home. Where is everyone?

And that Jillina workshop in Ajax? Well, apparently it's in Toronto, which is much better. And it would seem I've scored a ride. So if I get my registration done in time, I've got another training date for next month. Excellent....

The gym tried to kill me today. My shoulders are so wussy. They don't look wussy. I look pretty buff through the shoulders, but the muscle is just decoration, as far as I can tell. Overhead lifts just about kill me. What's with that?

I just about broke f00dave's mind the other day when I told him Napoleon's middle name was Taurus.

...

Get it?

And now for a couple more links:

Haunted Paper Toys: Fun stuff you can print out.

Custom Prosthetic Designs: Before and after pictures of horrifically maimed people who get a whole lot prettier with a bit of help. Check out the nose section. He should work on Michael Jackson....

Tongue Piercing Brings on 'Suicide Disease': Good thing the cure is simple.

I give my notice in just a few more days. Hell, maybe I'll give my notice on Thursday instead of Friday. That's a whole eight hours less of working at the coffee shop. Wow....

After two weeks of the garbage gloves being stored away from the ice, they've once again gravitated back. They just can't stay away. This time, the ice scoop was actually touching them. Gross me right the fuck out.

That being said, today wasn't too bad. Well, except that up until 9 o'clock tonight, I only had 22 cents in tips. I finished the night with a whopping dollar twelve, and eight cents of that was pennies I picked off the floor.

Since starting this job, I've become a much better tipper.

Tomorrow, I'd like to finish organizing my dance studio space, so it will be ready and waiting for me to fill it with my dancing self. Once my job is over, my life begins anew. Goodbye doughnuts, hello gym, kwoon, and dance studio(s). That little bit of pudge which has re-emerged on my gut will shrink back down as my training time goes up. And I'll be sewing and designing and dancing and kicking and punching and drawing and writing and thinking and modelling and photographing more. Good. I've missed my buff and creative self....

I have another dance gig lined up. This one's not until February 17th in Stratford. I'm thinking of doing a sword dance. Maybe I'll resuscitate the sword routine I did in Moncton a couple of years back. That was a good one, and I think I can do it even better, this time around.

Or maybe I'll work out something with double daggers. Or maybe I'll do both (at the same time?!). Yikes.

I'm freaking myself out now. There are only so many blades I ought to dance with at once, don't you think?

Work was mucho sucko thanks to an unempathetic supervisor. She sent a feverish worker with laryngitis out in the rain to take out the garbage (why didn't she send someone not sick, like me?). Apparently, she sent the same sick woman out to do it yesterday, too.

And she had me work window at drivethrough, something I find extremely stressful and painful. First of all, due to my ADD, I have an almost impossible time listening to my headset, listening to the people around me, and keeping track of the text on the monitor in front of me. Secondly, the window has been set up for someone substantially shorter than I am, so my back is killing me from the repetitive and very awkward twisting and bending I did. Thirdly, even though I was working my arse off to the absolute best of my ability, she kept sniping me with comments like, "You need to speed up," "You're taking too long," and "You need to get on the ball." And she also kept telling me to do things I had already started doing.

It took every bit of my self-control not to lay into her.

To top it off, I didn't even get any of the tips our team collected at drive-through.

I give my notice in a week and a day. That means I work three more weeks and one day.

Damn. That's too far off.

Hopefully, she won't be the supervisor for any more nights that I'll be working. The other supervisors are much easier to work with, and understand the value of empathy and just how inefficient micro-managing is.

I don't think she means ill. When she's not working, she seems to be friendly enough. I just think she's a shitty, shitty supervisor.

Ah well. Here's a joke to make you smile:

This woman goes into a funeral home to make arrangements for her husband's funeral. She tells the director that she wants her husband to be buried in a dark blue suit.

He asks, "Wouldn't it just be easier to bury him in the black suit that he's wearing?" But she insists that it must be a blue suit and gives him a blank check to buy one.

When she comes back for the wake, she sees her husband in the coffin and he is wearing a beautiful blue suit. She tells the director how much she loves the suit and asks how much it cost.

He says, "Actually, it didn't cost anything. The funniest thing happened. As soon as you left, another corpse was brought in, this one wearing a blue suit. I noticed that they were about the same size, and asked the other widow if she would mind if her husband were buried in a black suit. She said that was fine with her. So, I just switched the heads."

I biked to work in the pouring rain, and when I got there, found out I'd just missed the call that said I could stay home. A replacement was coming in for me at 5. Since I was already there and it was insanely busy, I said I'd stay the two hours until my replacement showed up.

I'm not sure why it is, but any time I've felt really sick while at work, I get better tips. Maybe people feel sorry for me and are trying to finance my medical care. Who knows?

Anyhow, I have a meme to share with you, courtesy of zeuberwench. This is a very cool meme. Ready?

The first five people to respond to this post, will get some form of art, by me, about them. I make no guarantees about quality or type, but I will assure that I will give it good effort and that the art will be individual to you, so if you get a mixed CD or some sort of painting doodle, yours is the only one like it.

The only catch, of course; as with most memes, if you sign up, you have to put this in your own journal as well.

Now that's good memeing!

I'm off to make some hot chocolate now. Real hot chocolate, not that stuff from a mix. It's just the thing when you're sick with a nasty cold....

Unless you drink your coffee black from Timmy's, get a stir stick and your cream/sugar/milk on the side, or ask that your drink be stirred with a straw. The spoons used to mix drinks are kept in ice (for health reasons).

However, the garbage gloves are once again hung directly over the ice in the back room (not for health reasons, but sheer convenience).

If you've seen the garbage I handle at work, you know that you don't want to have its drippings in your coffee. If you haven't seen it, consider this your warning.

This has been a public service announcement courtesy of a disgruntled coffee shop worker.

My tortured thumbnail from the other night has taken a turn for the worse. The bit that was stabbed (right in the nail bed) fills with pus every hour or so, and until I can relieve the pressure by pulling the nail away, is absolutely excruciating. It makes work very difficult, as the thumb is my money handling thumb. Yesterday, a customer tried to be cute by yanking away the money he was handing to me just as I was taking it. I almost screamed as the ten dollar bill pulled against my thumb.

Yeah, really funny, dude.

And right before close, I went to check on the status of the iced cappucino cups. There were far less than I anticipated, and a sharpish piece of metal jammed itself full speed right in the sweet spot. On the pain scale of one to ten, this was a ten and a half. I managed to run to the back room before collapsing against a wall and grasping my thumb. I almost started bawling, but after a few moments, the pain subsided to something manageable, and I was able to resume my customer-serving skills.

I cut my thumb nails short this morning. It seems to have helped somewhat.

In BETTER news, I seem to have found an excellent series of exercises calculated to improve both my balance and ankle strength. I do a series of balance exercises on the Bosu ball(s). First, I stand in mountain asana. This causes an enormous amount of involuntary shimmying, but, if I concentrate, eventually I can stand stock still. And that's when I start doing one-legged stuff....

Oh yes, and the elevator has become my new dance practice space. I live on the 16th floor. When I first started drilling, I decided to focus on glute shimmies. My left arse cheek is the more adept of the two. I could do about 8 rapid squeezes between floors. My right butt cheek could only manage four or five. After about a month of practice, I've improved my right glute squeezes to eight or nine squeezes between floors.

My new elevator drill is the Egyptian ("knee") shimmy. I hadn't realized how inconsistent it was until I started trying to shimmy at a regular rhythm for 16 floors. Let's see how much better it is in a month's time....

Last night's DJing session went fine, although the crowd at the Renn isn't exactly a lively one. I mostly played hard, stompy industrial club tunes which appealed to the male dancers. The set after mine played gothier stuff, which brought out the female dancers. At one point, during my one "easy-listening" song (Delerium's "Flowers Become Screens"), a very drunk and flaming guy approached the DJ booth.

"Um, excuse me."

"Yes?"

"Can you play music that people who aren't here can dance to?"

This just about broke my brain. Drunk logic always astounds me. After a bit of quizzing, wildelf discovered that he in fact wanted to dance to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" by Cindy Lauper.

And then a glam-looking blonde showed up. "Excuse me," she said. "Is there a theme to tonight's music?"

"Yes," said wildelf. "Old-school goth."

"Oh! Then can you play some Billie Holiday?"

Surprised, Th'elf said, "Oh, uh, I'm afraid I don't have any with me. Anything else?"

"Ok, then, how about Elvis?"

My eyebrows raised. "Elvis isn't at all old-school goth."

"Then how about some Roy Orgeh, Orbeh, uh, Roy Orby...."

"Roy Orbison?" I asked.

"Yeah! Him!"

Th'elf said, "That's definitely not old-school goth. We don't have any of that."

"Oh, then what's old-school golf?" (Yes, I'm sure she said 'golf.')

"Stuff like The Cure, Bauhaus, The Mission, Sisters of Mercy," said Th'elf.

"You mean like 80s stuff?"

"Sure."

"Well, I don't see how you can call that old-school golf. Fine, then. If it's 80s, I want to hear Madonna."

Sigh....

I'd forgotten this aspect of DJing.

snowy_kathryn and I just got back from the medical clinic, where we both received bad news regarding our feet. About three months ago, Kathryn cut her foot on a broken beer bottle. We removed glass from her foot, and when it didn't seem to be healing properly a month later, she went to a doctor who told her it was normal. It is nowhere near normal. There's a huge, red, hard painful lump on her foot, and she's always experiencing stabbing pains in it. He said that any glass in her foot would be "absorbed by her body."

What?

The doctor today didn't even look at it when he gave her his first professional opinion: "I don't know why you'd think there's glass in your foot."

Because she had a bunch of glass stab into her foot, dolt.

But when she insisted, he decided to send her for xrays, and of course there's a big piece of glass deep in her foot, amongst bones and scar tissue. And now she has to go in for complicated surgery to remove that glass.

And as for me, well, I'm just plain doomed, because I have a bone spur. Apparently, nothing that can be done for it aside from taking painkillers, icing it when needed, and avoiding anything that sets it off (which apparently includes both walking and sleeping, because it hurts like a bitch when I lie down. Sitting is ok, though).

I saw the spur on the xray. My heel, instead of being nice and round, has a nice, sharp, pointy bit stabbing out. It's the source of the mysterious, and not insignificant, foot pain which began Monday night.

The doctor told me that the spur was likely caused by repetitive movement, so I should quit dance. But how can my dance, which is much lower in impact than regular walking, be causing my bone spur?

I am not quitting dance. I'll quit my job (which is certainly harder on the feet: I'm constantly walking, twisting, and standing on concrete) before I'll quit dance. Now, more than ever before, I must find a different job--apparently one with less movement.

I need to do more research on this bone spur thing. Do you have bone spurs? How do you work with 'em?

And contrary to Kathryn's beliefs, pizza will not cure our feet.

For the first time, work was interesting. I got to practice at least a little bit of my first aid skills.

Early this morning, a mentally handicapped woman had a bad fall while waiting in line. I think she tripped over someone's foot. She did a face plant, and laid on her belly howling in pain. I ran over from behind the counter, got her calmed down and lying still, and found out where she was injured. Her mouth was bleeding pretty bad, and I think her arm was broken. I was relieved by another first aider shortly thereafter, then made sure the EMTs had been called, and then I ran and got the first aid kit and cleaned the blood off the floor.

Then I washed up and went back to serving coffee.

I felt sorry for the poor woman. She's one of our regulars, and was obviously in a lot of pain. I hope she's ok.

I was commended for my speedy response by the manager, but it's not like I did much. I hope that after I get my Class C first aid certification later this month that I can volunteer with St. John Ambulance as an instructor and get a lot more training and experience. I hate feeling helpless/useless when someone gets hurt.

And then on my lunchbreak, I discovered an unintentionally-hilarious essay a co-worker had written and left on the table. I've excerpted the best part, warts and all:

A Few Words on Pansexuality

Homophobia is a bad word as bad as Homosexual, Hetrosexual, Bisexual and so on and so forth.

The term is derived from our closest primate cousins, the bonobo monkeys. Incidently, the phraze 'make love not war' is also attributed to the bonobos. If for instance, two bonobos want the same banana, instead of being aggressive and fighting over said banana, they are more likely to make love (have sex) and then share the said banana--if only we could follow their example more closely, we would all be better off.

And now for your daily link dose:


Designer creates floating bed: If you have lots of piercings, I don't recommend you hide under this bed.

Woman comes home to find house cleaned: Stuff like this never happens to me (thanks, gha5t).

Obsessive Compulsive Cat: Floosh.

The Autistic Human Camera: This guy is amazing.

Sexy Lean Latrine: Not your everyday urinal (possibly NSFW).