Friday, January 24, 2014
Now that we are speaking to each other again, I accept that what Marty said, as he swung through the doors and pointed his cell phone at me in a gansta' wit a gun stance, was "Give me all your pennies or I'll be forced to call 911." All I heard was "Give me all your... pfmhmghrrghrwwwuu...." and all I saw was something black pointed at me in a way that people on tv point guns. Very much the same as when the actual guy with the actual turned-out-to-be-fake-gun pointed his fake gun at me a couple of years back. Only that guy had his face covered and it was 3 in the morning and this guy had a bare face and it was the middle of the day, like the Marathon store robbery in December where the clerk was murdered. So all I could think was "I'm dead.", until I processed the voice, and the scene. Whereupon I pronounced him unfunny, flew into a rage and cursed him, bringing Sharon, our Assistant Manager to the scene to assess the situation and then berate him some more and run him off the property. He hadn't come into the store when Sharon or I were there until yesterday and he was awful sorry. I had forgiven him that same day, 'cause y'know... it's Marty. He belatedly remembered that I have been held up, and was informed for the first time that the clerk I was working with has been as well, though it was when she worked for another company.
You would be hard put to walk into a convenience store with veteran workers on hand to find a group where at least one could not tell you about "their robbery". I hadn't thought very deeply about what they pay us, because I took the posiition as a little second job to help clear up some bills and they very kindly work around my big job schedule. But for most of the clerks I work with, this is their big, or only, job. They are in harms way every day and being paid as little as possible. Sometimes as little as the law allows. The people who profit most from our risk are safe behind corporate walls where there's no money on hand. It doesn't make a lot of sense. Their only risk is financial. The little people have their lives on the line, and their psychological well being. Even the corporate office workers are higher paid. My guess is it's because the big guys have to face them every day. It's not because any of them is more competent than me.
I've been following the fast food workers strikes, and their attempts to unionize. I know why they need to. There are 7 of us in non management positions at our store. Even if we all went together to negotiate we would be unheard. Support the fast food workers. And when the convenience store workers wake up and revolt, support us. This is a twisted twisted situation.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
My mother was right. Chubby little girls who insist on ballet lessons, point no less, wind up with joint problems later in life. My feet are a mess, but it's my hips that sometimes wake me up in the middle of the night. Ordinarily there's no going back to sleep without medicinal intervention. Often I incorporate the pain into my dreams. I do the same thing with alarm clocks, but ironically the aches eventually wake me while the alarm does not.
Last night I dreamt. The pain was huge and radiant and I somehow knew that I had to take a pill that began with "g" to be alright. In the dream I knew the whole name of it, but in waking only the "g" remains. My friend Minda was there in the dream, and I asked her if she had this medication. She hesitated, because she had it by prescription and there are laws. But seeing what misery I was in, she dug a bottle out of her purse and dispensed just one, which I did not hesitate to swallow immediately, as pain knows no laws.
I woke up, hurting. But in the haze of half sleep I assured myself that I had just taken something and it would be okay soon.
It was when I was driving to work that I realized... the dream pill not only let me sleep, I was still pain free sitting in the car hours later. I am rarely pain free sitting in the car. Stunning.
Tonight I hope Minda gives me something to make my clothes fit better.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
The Fabbey Abbey Ball was a Downton Abbey themed fundraiser for KET held at Spindletop Hall. Interspersed between dinner, dessert and dancing were short scenes featuring characters from the TV show played by local actors and a has-been. Moi. I'm not sure what made Martha Campbell think of me for the role of Violet. I'd never seen the show and said yes before I understood fully that I was going to be standing in for Maggie Smith. Ye Gods.
When I ran from theatre, it was 90 miles an hour into the black night screaming like a blazing banshee in soon to catch gunpowder boots. For years I wouldn't even go to a play unless Patti was in it. I told folks I had PTSD. Post Theatric Stress Disorder. I had recovered enough to go to a play that Patti was not in, if she went with me, but the thought of being further involved kind of gave me the all overs. that is, until a few weeks ago when this opportunity was presented. When I realized that the very idea did not make me curl up into a ball, I found it was a quite convenient time for me to take a week off from Meijer, wondered what old buddies might turn up in the cast, basked in the lovely warm glow of having been asked... and jumped.
Great landing. The whole event was FUN in all capitals. I don't think it's the chocolate truffle-y cheesecake they fed us talking, though I confess that I am still under the influence. I met some terrific actor people and got to work with Laurie Preston(who I have known for 20ish years and never acted with) and Martha. It was a light and easy project. A toe in tepid water. And it woke something up. When the cast was joking about "next years fund raiser" as we were packing up, I found myself commenting as if I was all in. All the way home I thought of characters I am now the right age to play. And not only that, but plays I could finish writing. Paintings I have in my head. The perfect set of Crucible costumes I designed and once longed to build. Languishing short stories. Like the lid got lifted off a pot of creativity that has been simmering all this time.
Maybe I am ready to go back. A little.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Quickly turning to view the woman retreating from the Palomar Shell building toward the pump islands, I expected to see at least exposed sagging flesh or leopard print. Instead, she had on some close fitting jeans, not tight enough to bind or reveal a lot of details, on a slim, toned body. She was wearing two layers of t-shirt with the bottom longer than the top, in the fashion. Also snug, but over a torso with an honest to god waistline. She had yummy, thick, dark hair that came just below her shoulders. From the rear view, she was ageless. I would have guessed 30 maybe. If she were nearing middle age the whole package, from my perspective, was only enough to make me think "You go girl." Perhaps the bubble gum pink t-shirt had an immodest decolletage'... or a picture of Hello Kitty on it?
"What is wrong," I asked Sam, "with what she is wearing?"
"The glittery sneakers."
Stunned. Not because I had missed them entirely, but because I couldn't for the life of me understand what is wrong with glittery sneakers at any age. What?
"They're for kids."
So there is to be no shoe fun for the aged. Lemme' tell ya. If I didn't have more urgent things to spend on and found a pair of red sequin chucks in my size, I would so be wearing them. Red. Pink. Turquoise. I could entertain the objection if they were, say, high heeled sneakers. But what the hell? Who made this rule? Sam was not backing down. So all night I mused aloud about what color glitter I might have at home and if Alene's fabric glue would make it stick to my old K-Swiss.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Once upon a time I was choring away at the costume warehouse, wrapping up a few things while waiting for my beloved friend Patti to arrive so we could run off to do some fun thing or other. I bent over to pick up a fallen costume and raised up into a waterfall fixture and clocked my forehead with some force. It hurt like the devil and there was a scrape with just a little blood. Not nearly enough to prompt the outpouring of sympathy I felt I deserved. So I sat on the floor a little longer than I needed to clear my head, hoping Patti would come in while I was sitting there and realize the extent of my suffering. Patti is a champion oh-you-poor-thinger and it is wonderful to get that blast of warm sympathy and then bravely say "Oh… it's nothing. What movie are we seeing?" She was late and I got bored and washed my forehead, but I told her when she arrived how I had posed for her on the floor and she missed it. Her laughter is as uplifting as her compassion. Good trade.
This is just a glimpse into the workings of my inner mind to suggest to you, dear readers, how much I have enjoyed the attention I have received since the robbery. I am functioning just fine, though I admit it is on my mind almost constantly. I expect my boss thought I had an unnatural fear of corporate visits when I jerked as he told us to expect "Rob". Several folks have suggested that I might fall apart later. So far I have chewed a hole in my lip during the night and burst out crying at Alberta's 6th grade picture even before I read the caption. But just look at how dear that picture is. I might have done that anyway. Further, I have been congratulated for and encouraged to keep writing about it, making me feel all brave and such for courageously revealing my trembling guts.
Truthiness? The second I saw the gun (and I now can remember it in his hand, but only when he is approaching the door) my inner wordsmith was whispering "oh… you can get some mileage out of this." and I was already composing before the police got there. The good parts of the saga are I didn't get hurt, it didn't last long, he didn't get much, he will get caught and I have a great story to tell. And I loooove having a story to tell. What's a little peace of mind compared to that? Good trade.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Even though I just watched the surveillance tape and could clearly see it in his left hand, I cannot picture the man standing in front of me with a gun pointed my direction. I told the police officers he had a sock on his hand with something hard in it. Or his hand was in his pocket. I told them I definitely did not see a gun. Watching the video it is clear that is impossible. Somehow my mind has photoshopped that selected area with the "grainy" filter. I simply cannot call up the image.