per aspera ad astra

I assume all restaurants work this way, because all the ones I’ve heard of do, but if not, I’ll explain rotation anyway. Basically, it is just the “system,” or order by which customers or groups are sat in order to maintain both fairness in terms of money-making but to make sure that no one is overwhelmed and that no one is dreadfully bored. Regulars or friends that come in and request you count as your next, “turn,” so in those circumstances you are skipped. Skips can only be put on a server by the server themself, theoretically.

Just before I returned to work, Diane, the manager who writes the schedule, pinned up a notice directed towards my mother but addressed anonymously. It stated that servers need to stop seating out of rotation, or ’stealing’ tables, in other words, taking tables in other sections, etc., without consent from their coworkers. Also, anyone found ‘guilty’ of this would be given a week off the schedule as a corrective measure. It said, “Theoretically, we are all mature adults here, and we should behave and conduct ourselves in a mature fashion!” [Now, that was edited to make it legible for the intelligent eyes here... in reality it was a mess and, "fashion!" was really appended by at least ten exclamation points. And the whole notice was written under the influence of the CAPSLOCK key. She ended it with, "I think those guilty know who they are and will stop this unfair behavior at once!"
My first issue with that is that a truly mature adult wouldn't have tried to be clever like that and dance around the perceived issue...they would've addressed the person they thought to be in err directly to stave off the problem at once instead of posting a little notice saying, "You know who you are, tee hee!"
Secondly...you also know that I am not a fan of my mother. However, in this case I definitely have to be on her side because Diane had a very skewed version of reality. What had happened was that a friend came in and requested her. She marked the rotational chart up front where guests wait to be sat with a marker to signify that she was to be skipped, and the other waitstaff was informed. However, one of the people who likes to cause drama went and told Diane that my mom was stealing tables after saying it was okay.
And when my mom was going off about it when she saw the posted notice, the very same woman was like, "Wow, that's so stupid!" Ah, must love fake people who kiss up to idiots.

Anyway, I started working there and issues with rotation during my shift arose. Not that I was taking, no, but that the same woman from before was cleverly trying to pick and choose the tables she judged to be good tippers and would skip me when one of those came in. I noticed this and told my shift manager, Eric [the only one who I actually enjoy working with because he's a helpful, smart person] and he fixed the issue for the evening, as it was all he could.
A few days later, the sections were drawn strangely because Diane was running shift. I only had four tables in my station which would only harbor four adults each. As the rotation went along, a party of five came in while it was my turn. Linda, a coworker of mine and a pretty spiffy lady aside, sat them at a table that would fit them in her own section and gave me permission to take them as my own. In a typical situation, that’s end of story and transaction. Both involved parties are okay with it, then it is okay.
Shortly after, while they are still out there, Diane peers into the dining room and asks whose table that is. I answer that it is mine, and she goes off about how I’m stealing tables and seating out of my own section. I hadn’t sat the door once that day, and certainly not to myself. I explained that Linda had kindly let me take it since it was my turn. Diane replies that she draws the seating chart for a reason and how we’re trying to undermine her. No, I really wasn’t.
So a while goes by and I don’t get a table but the rest of the restaurant seems full. I wondered aloud if someone had made a mistake in the seating rotation. Diane snidely replies that she altered it on purpose until I could act right. I hadn’t taken a tone or anything with her, so wth. She’s always been very nasty to me for no good reason other than she doesn’t like my mom. Well… I’m not my mom, and my mom doesn’t really care if I make money or not. So!
Shano, the general manager of the store comes in. [This was prior to the Veterans Day nonsense of the previous post] I asked to speak to him about the issue. He didn’t seem to understand why she skipped me, so I had to waste time explaining five times that she had a bitchfit over something insignificant. He tried to make it out like she was trying to help me out by ensuring I’m not overwhelmed. “Shano… one five-top? Overwhelming? I’ve served half this damn restaurant before by MYSELF. You were HERE for that. It’s one thing to ask if I am okay, but I was never asked… and according to her bulletins, skips are only applied by the server to themselves.” He said he’d talk to her about it.

Shano, however, is just of the opinion that I am a surly, flippant, uppity teenager simply because the rest of the teenagers and very young adults there are. He’s of the opinion that I’m just trying to cause a problem [which I don't get; if I was just out to cause problems I would have caused them when I worked there before]. NO… I’m really not. I just want the drama resolved, I just want to be able to work and make some money to cover the things I need to be able to cover. I come there to work, not to play High School. So of course nothing was done. Same issue pretty much repeats itself. I spoke to him again, again repeating.
Another day, I worked a daytime shift and my assigned sidework was to tidy up and stock the salad-prep area, roll my share of silverware, fill up the soda fountain with ice, etc, make sure my tables were cleaned and stocked with condiments, napkins, etc. all of which was done. Daytime Salad-prep is always clean&stock, not rotate dressings and other stuff into new containers. Diane insists that I rotate them, so I rotated the ones that looked as if they NEEDED rotation, but not all of them, simply because that is a night shift closing duty. She wrote me up for that. LOL…
The writeup also claimed that I didn’t get my ice, when I have witnesses otherwise, and that there was hot fudge on all my tables, which simply isn’t the case because I had very few icecream orders that day…and because I thoroughly clean my tables anyway.

Let me explain something. I do my job. I am good at my job; I am efficient, my customers generally like me [one lady, in fact, today, told both me and Shano that I am a, "lovely and sweet girl...that it was a pleasure having [me] serve them today,” and left a fat tip to accompany.] and I don’t bitch about it there. I am not perfect, and admittedly I will miss something, but it is often rare and often small and not even noticeable.
The servers in the restaurant, however, are not all held to the same standard and expectation. Some are allowed to get away with not doing any of their sidework just because they know Diane IRL. [Or are going down on her. You choose!] Many of those people have never had a word said to them about it in the months or year or two [for a few] they’ve been there..aside from the angry words that we-who-get-our-shit-done-but-end-up-being-fucked-over-by-lazy-worthless-pieces-of-shit deliver them. I am not trying to say, “Well they don’t so I shouldn’t,” but that if I am going to deal with such nonsense over a mistake that never even OCCURRED…then where’s their consequences?
I fucking hate double-standards.

On Veterans Day [so Tuesday prior to the one that just passed], I was sat a deaf gentleman and .. hm, I don’t care to assume, but it could have been his mother, wife, just a friend…I really have no idea who wasn’t deaf and I suppose could have helped. He can read lips and mouth words himself, and I know a tiny bit of sign to nudge myself over the gaps in speech.

I have seen my co-workers, in similar situations, neglect the deaf guest and direct everything to the one capable of conventional communication. I don’t think that’s right, personally, so I addressed him as a person, not an obstacle. I half spoke and half signed asking what he would like to eat and drink; he managed to choke out the word, “Coke,” and settled for pointing to one of the dishes on the menu. I nodded confirmation and scribbled it down, and turned to the lady at the table and requested her order. Before giving me what she wanted, however, she says [and very rudely, I might add], “No, he wants this,” and points to something entirely different on a whole ‘nother page of the menu.
For a moment, I had difficulty with this. He seemed conscious, sentient, and obviously able to read, and able to point out what he wants. Why would she say he wants something entirely different? At the same time, if she was actually correct, I didn’t just want to contradict or be trying of patience especially since I didn’t ACTUALLY know the circumstances of the situation. I asked her if she was quite sure, and glanced at him–he continued to point to and direct his gaze to his initial indication.
Going along with the reason I addressed him in the first place, I had the cooks make what he indicated he’d like. I brought them their food; of course she sneered at me, but he got this big grin and began to maul his food, first mouthing a, “Thank you,” to me. Later he paid the bill and thanked me again–and left a respectable tip.
So I guess I was correct in my judgment, although I almost wavered. But what would you have done?

Shortly after he had been sat, a man and his blind friend came in with a service dog. Now, I know that sight-dogs are trained to behave… but for one, I just have this weird thing about dogs in general unless I have been introduced to them and have come to know their mannerisms. Two, although it technically violates about eight-hundred health violations, you can’t refuse service to someone because of that. Having never dealt with the situation, I asked my manager, in passing, where I ought to seat them. He suggests a table in the far back corner, another table in my section. However, the rotation of tables [to ensure fair seating for us servers] was not on me…and we’d been having some issues with rotation lately [which I will address in another post]…and that table was in my section. Entirely without intention to contradict or refuse, I reminded him that that would goof up the rotation so another server was welcome to take it to avoid the conflict that would arise from that. Instead of, “Okay, thanks for letting me know,” he turns back to me and snaps and yells at me in front of I-don’t-know-how-many people that I will, “very will obey him and do as he says without contradiction because he won’t be embarrassed.”
I think you all have read enough of my bits to know that speaking to me that way does not mesh. However, I sat them, and once I got their drinks and returned to the back to do some cleaning back there, I stopped him.
“Shano,” I said. Deceptively mild, of course, because that’s just how I do things…but with increasing severity, “I should hope that you won’t dare to allow such poor judgment to befall you again; you will never speak to me in that manner EVER again. I allow no one to speak to me that way under any circumstance. Perhaps you have forgotten that I am an employee of this restaurant…not your own child, and certainly not your slave or bitch. And no amount of money, and especially not the pittance of a wage you graciously afford me, will ever give you or anyone else the right to address me that way. Get it together.” Amusingly, he mumbled out some half-assed apology that I rejected. Yes, I speak to my managers this way, but my justification comes in later posts.
Upon later handling that table, I was so happy to find that the dog was very well-behaved and out of the way. The men were polite and even apologetic over the pup, but it was quite alright. I do wish other patrons would have read the damn sign attached to the dog’s harness, though, stating that he was not to be pet while he was ‘working..’ but of course every idiot was like, “Ooh, look at the doggie!”

People make it out like dealing with people who don’t necessarily have all of the abilities that most do is so hard. It really isn’t, but the people who are lucky to still have their sight are the ones with blinders on.

Another rant, as per my usual.

Let me preface this that there is a writer for my local newspaper who ridicules the part of workforce that relies on tips [eg: waiters!] because he himself is notorious for being an ass in such establishments, and people who have waited on him have gotten fed up and called him out on his cheapskate bullshit [such as a $3 tip on a $65 check, etc]. He makes a point of writing sarcastic, moronic articles that can be taken as downright offensive if you’re in a position in which you rely on them as your source of income. [Here, typically, the hourly wage for people waiting tables is $2.13; your income, solely, is based on your tips; that $2.13/hr covers tax stuff--and that's all.] In fact, in yesterday’s paper, he had wrote a quite lengthy article about how, “appalling,” it is that everyone who makes low wages be tipped on the sales they bring in–like a salesman at an electronics store selling a $4,500 television. “How appalling,” he mused, “that that consumer wouldn’t fork over a $675 tip to the fellow who helped him to make the choice. Rather, this young man deserved a 20% tip for lugging it across the parking lot!” Of course, what Donnie Johnston seems to forget is that in such positions, the salespeople do get commission, especially of of big sales like that. He went on to chide people for going to banks, cashing their checks, and then failing to tip the teller, etc.
In short, this guy is an asshole. Any poor service he gets, he damn well deserves, because he likes to fuck with the people who he deals with, and when people call him out on it, he makes a little show of it. Of all the places he’s been, here, surely the people he’s dealt with have deserved better. I just pray that he would come into my store. I really, really do.

To give you a really idea of why I’m irate… how is it that I made more on a moderately slow lunch shift on a Thursday than I did on a full-ish Saturday night? On my four-and-a-half hour Thursday shift, of the like.. perhaps 12 tables I ended up having, I made $53. That’s about 25% of my sales for the day, which was rung in around $202 and change.
Even so, I had two tables of rednecks stiff me. It isn’t like it’s the first time I’ve ever waited tables, and I go wayyy out of my way to make sure that my normal sass is very much in check when I’m dealing with people on this front. Everything they needed was prompt, refills were had prior to need, they even went on to say how nice and pleasant I was. One of the two tables had the nerve to go on about how gasoline is cheaper here than where he was coming from with his wife. Oh, certainly, and in all that money you’re saving on petrol, you can’t kick me like $3-5 on your $25 check? Psh. The other table had a toddler who they forced into a high chair [it was too small, and I recommended a booster seat, but nooo... gotta have the high chair] and proceded to ignore for the duration of their stay. Seven minutes after I placed their orders to the kitchen, they interrupted me while I was dealing with another table, snapping, “How much longer is it gonna be? I’m ’bout ready to leave, this is ridiculous.” As you can imagine, that was one of the instances I was at odds with my mouth…but I told them, instead, “I can see how much longer our cook says, but I’m certain it shouldn’t be more than three or four minutes. I can box it to go if you’re in a hurry.” “No,” the man of the couple snapped, “just bring it out. I’m hungry.” I was struggling, honestly, not to tell him to watch his tone, and recommend McDonald’s instead if he needed fast food; that this is a restaurant and we don’t just have everything sitting in the back to be micro-nuked. Buuut I didn’t. Meantime, their kid is spilling drinks, hurling silverware around, shredding napkins, and still screaming…but the parents ignored him. They snap at me as I’m bringing them new cutlery that they need it–well, yeah. I was already pretty sure of what they were going to leave me before they left, but even so, I maintained a good attitude and good service. But I was right–nothing, plus a huge mess from their kid. Yay! Seriously, rednecks are so damn notorious for not tipping, or tipping exceedingly poorly. I’m pretty sure the UK and Europe doesn’t have such a category of people, but I’m sure chavs act that way in the UK, and…well, I’m unworldly and all, so forgive me. x]
But through those two tables on Thursday, I STILL made 25% of my sales.

Last night, I was expecting at least a $75 yield–and actually, I really needed it. However, there was some drama caused by another waitress who is friends with one of the managers, directed at my mom–and then inadvertently at me, just because I’m her kid. The stuff is actually baseless, as witnessed by the rest of the staff, but it still threw things off for the evening. So mom was all pissy, and that waitress skipped seating me like twice, and gave me a shitload of shitty people. I mean, this sounds bad, but generally you can see at the door what you’ll make. You can’t actually judge and treat anyone based on that, but you still get an idea. All those tables got sent to me. This is how my night went:

1. Party of 6; two moms, four kids. $62 check, plus a huge mess and running back and forth to boot. $4.65. Did I mention the kids? I really don’t like waiting on kids. I don’t *show* that, but I really don’t. Mommy wants to empower them and let them order on their own, but then, although they were supposed to have decided [that's what the extra ten minutes was for, and two wasted trips to your table..] they sit there and stare at the kids menu going, “I want, uhhhh, uhhh…” and mommy dearest just smiles, proud of them for wasting time. Or better yet, when they’re shouting and changing drink orders over each other. But mommy’s so proud of her little bastards that she forgets to leave a decent tip for the people that have to clean up after them.

2. Party of 6; all adults. Drinks maintained, carafes of coffee maintained, food was out like immediately because this was during a slow spell; EVERYTHING was as it should’ve been. They were all smily and, “Thank you, dear,” and, “This is been a nice experience!” Check: $102.12. Tip: $4.38. [I had a goddamn fit over that one.. I mean seriously.] Maybe it was because one of the party ordered this mushroom bacon swiss burger without reading the damn menu, and apparently didn’t like bacon. Great. The man who handed over the bill was all, “Ohoho, no change needed,” like he’s some fucking virtuouso of generosity or something.

3. Party of 5 seniors. Icecream&coffee, made their sundaes myself and had to brew fresh coffee too. Now, I wouldn’t mention that, but.. literally as soon as each Decaf and Regular had finished brewing, I filled cups and carafes. The cups hadn’t had enough time to really heat up from the coffee, and they insisted the coffee was cold when I took it to them. I went back, filled a separate cup, dipped my pinky, and burned the hell out of it. That goddamn coffee was hot. The 7.5 seconds it took me to get from the brewing area to their table I know it hadn’t turned lukewarm. But whatever, I made their cups toasty for them. But so, on their $34 check, $2 and the change they didn’t want to carry in their pockets. They also sat there for a total of an hour and 15 minutes after they had paid, taking a table in my section, and prolonging me from going home because they stayed 20min after closing.

4. Party of 2…and a half. Some smarmy woman, her yowling toddler, and her obese friend came in. But so, everything was peachy, everyone had what they needed, as always refills were had prior to being required, etc. It was one of the rare tables that could tell I was new-ish, but only because she overheard a conversation with another waitress. She was like, “Ohh, you’re new? You’re doing a GREAT job! ^_^!” Annnd after she gives me more smarmy nonsense and rude tones, and lets her kid make a mess of everything … the cunt stiffs me on a $34 check. It was my last table of the night.

I made $45 fucking dollars last night and I rang in like $427 in sales for the evening.

The other staff had been watching me since I am technically new, and they said that they didn’t see me slip up at all. I didn’t have any complaints. I don’t get why people have to be so fucking obnoxious, rude and ultimately, cheap. If you can’t afford to come out to eat–and that includes tipping the appropriate people as and if appropriate…and I make damn well sure it IS approrpriate–then don’t bother to come out.

Writer Donnie Johnston and others like him don’t seem to understand that people do live day to day. Well, of course not, he’s got this big farm that he rakes in loads from, and some other tripe, and he’s a staff writer for the newspaper. He doesn’t have anything to worry about. He’s one of the folks that thinks it is more than perfectly acceptable to treat people in the service industry any way he pleases. While it isn’t acceptable, he pretty much can get away with it…I mean, what can you do short of pre-empting him and fucking with him?

More people ought to watch that movie, Waiting. While it is a comedy, it conveys such a serious message: don’t fuck with people who handle your food. Don’t fuck with people who handle your car or your children. Just act right, damnit, and there won’t be any issues. But that’s just too hard for some people. Some people gotta make things so much more difficult than they need to be.

Now this is the *real* post concerning money and its effects on whatever.

So as soon as I got this job back, my dad, instead of coming and talking to me about it, just decided to be an obnoxious little prick and bitch about me to my mother. Apparently I’m expected, now, to shell out for the last payment of Keystone. That’s not really a big deal, I should have enough money by then to cover it, even only working part time on day shift…but that is something that needs to be discussed with ME, not with mom. Mom doesn’t have access to my money. Mom isn’t necessarily going mention this shit to me [although evidently she did]. How the hell am I supposed to know something like that unless I’m told? So it comes down to the date the payment is due, and he’s like, “O BTW…”
Yeah! That’d be fan-fucking-tastic.

Meantime, I also have to shell out for gas to cover my trips to and from work. He thinks that, since I am a teenager and since I don’t drive yet or even just get out much, that I don’t know how much gas costs, and because of that, he tried to give me this exorbitant rate when it costs under a gallon for my to- and -from. I was like, “Uh, right; here’s 3.52, that’ll cover today’s transport and then a little bit.” He’s not happy about that, but I’m not funding his vices when he doesn’t even manage to keep food in the pantry and fridge. It isn’t that I mind paying for the gas, but the fact that he absolutely came to demanding and insisting that I get a job but now demands that I pay for it and even part of my mom’s ‘fare’ is what makes it a fucked up situation.

And that’s where this becomes a rant! :D?!

Dad’s job covers the rent, and utilities [water, gas, power]. Since we pretty much rent this house from his boss, that comes out of his check. So he just doesn’t really tend to go get his check weekly or even bi-weekly because it would be rather small. Instead, he prefers to let it amass for months at a time so it is actually a real dollar amount. [Actually, as of two nights ago his pay has just been doubled--which is marvelous for him what with the economy about to die.] Mom’s earnings from waiting tables are supposed to cover the other stuff–food, fuel, and the phone and cable bills, and of course their cigarette and alcohol habits..and other vices.. Oh, and dad’s retarded football parlays. He’s usually fairly decent, but this year he hasn’t won a single one because players keep getting injured. But he persists to blow from $50-100 weekly on these things. Plus the lotto and scratch tickets. [But he's complained about the five bucks so that I could obtain some personal hygeine things I needed. e_e]

There were a couple weeks in September where business at the restaurant was slow, so she brought in less that normal, and that put us in a bind. Since then, business has come back up a bit, and she’s been making what is closer to normal, meaning we should be okay.

We should be, but we aren’t. Our phone was cut off yesterday, because for SOME reason, my dad never paid the bill. Oh, right, yes, because he’s blowing money gambling, drinking, and smoking. But even with those things, all the money isn’t accounted for; there’s around $200-$300 that is floating in limbo, and this time it isn’t my mom’s fault. He hasn’t been buying hardly any food, the damn cable bill is past-due, and he hasn’t fixed the goddamn van yet, so wtf.

There was really no reason that my Grandmother had to kick in to help with the last Keystone payment [plus my money to get my A+ done.. and don't get me wrong, I do greatly appreciate her willingness to help me--but the point is, she shouldn't have had to]; he had the fucking money… he’s just hoarding it or blowing it on something that he really doesn’t want mom and I to know about.

I hate to sound like an angsty teenager here, but I don’t know if I can help it. With the circumstances being as they are, I’m not even really certain why I bother living here and putting up with the tripe and nonsense that they perpetuate. I’m not content with the idea of waiting eight months to move, especially since those eight months will continue under circumstances such as these; my time, energy, and money would be better spent in an area that actually DOES have some jobs despite the cutbacks, making a decent living fucking wage to contribute to the household that will be, then, phix’s and my own.
I mean, honestly. This is just goofy. I guess the only reason why I have to stay is so that I can make sure that the damn school doesn’t fuckup my transcript from Keystone and so I can ensure that I have all the shit documenting the fact that I am a legit graduate. After all, Dad’s all been pushing for having me out of here ASAP and I haven’t even discussed my plans to move as soon as it’s legal for me to. When Phix was here visiting, he was introducing him to people as his future son-in-law and cracking jokes about getting me married off and moved out. How fucking tacky..

So I’ve been filling out a maddening amount of applications, both online and on paper. Unfortunately, our vehicle is…moody, and I haven’t been able to turn in the paper ones yet. >.<

For those of you who generally haven’t experienced the wonder that is the online application process for most places [in which a seventeen-year-old could get a job], let me break it down.

• First choose the position(s) you’re applying for. Most online applications I’ve done only let you choose one, so if you want to apply for other positions as well… tough.
• Basic info, such as name, address, telephone number, and then social security number.
• Basic questions such as, “Are you over 18? If no, are you at least 16+?” “Can you provide proof of eligibility to work in the US?” “Have you ever been convicted of a felony? If so, explain.” “What are you pursuing–Full time, part time?” “What hours are you available to work?”
• Approval of a criminal background check.
• Questions asking, “Hey, if we want to drug test you, are you down with that?” and a notice that, if you are requested to take one to see if you’re ‘eligible’ to be hired, and you refuse, any offers of employment go poof.
• Previous employer/experience information. Other references.
• [My favorite part] Then is a ridiculous personality evaluation to which the answers are, “Strongly Disagree,” “Disagree,” “Agree,” and, “Strongly Agree.” You are then faced with statements like, “I’m not afraid to say what’s on my mind.” “I prefer to work alone than on a team.” “When someone criticizes me, it bothers me for a long time.” “I am talkative.” Many of the statements are the same as a previous one, just reworded. How does this take place of a first impression?! Gah.

Now, what does it matter if I’m a bubbly idiot if I’m in a position that doesn’t deal with people? If I am qualified and can get the job done efficiently and effectively without being an asshole… psh.

Anyway, mom came home from work last night and mentioned that the manager had asked her to relay to me that their daytime shift waitstaff is pretty much about to poof [One's about to have a baby, two have found better jobs, one's in the nuthouse and one is about to go to jail! Yay!] and that they will be in dire need of servers within the next week or two.

I don’t relish the idea of working at Friendly’s again. However, I should be able to maintain decent hours if the circumstances are what they are, and I’d probably make more doing that than I would in retail.

I’ll know by the end of this week..

edit:
Just kidding, I know now. I do have a job again, and I will be starting on Sunday, probably. Yip yip yip.

Otakon 2008 was a great success. It raked in 26,500+ people [I can't remember the specific figure]. Otakon 2009 has been scheduled for July 17-19th and will be held, of course, in Baltimore, Maryland, at the illustrious B(altimore)C(onvention)C(center).

There was lots of Caramelldansen-ing. Lots. In the car on the way there, in the snazzy hotel room, in the damn shower, at the con, in the streets, at restaurants…you name it, it happened there. Yay!

I have discovered that I enjoy, as does Phixious, working/staffing the convention versus just attending. In spite of the drama blizzard, I had more fun working than last year just being there. Lending a hand in the understaffed Cosplay department [without being staff or a Gofer (which is like...junior staff)] made me see that…while simultaneously wanting nothing more than to wring the neck of the twit in charge of it.
[But I refuse to have this be a big rant about incompetence, so I will just say that she Department Head was chosen for her status AS a cosplayer, not as someone who could handle the job itself, and things were screwy because of it. Phix, however, managed to get things under control. Which is good. So yay.]
Howeverrr, in helping as I did, the president of the con–who is a lovely and sweet lady who should get endless huggles for being so–personally invited me to staff. So I am officially staff of Otakorp, despite the fact that staffers are supposed to be at least eighteen. Yay for bending rules over my sheer, unadulterated AWESOME.

Speaking of awesome…

Some really smart kid climbed onto the roof and duct taped this to the damn high-vaulted windows. It’s funny and annoying at the same time.

There were some really great Cosplays, although I didn’t have the sense to get the camera out in time to snap them, and I didn’t want to bug the people registering for the contest–that, and I was working, so the chance didn’t always present itself when it ought. Phixious has more pictures from his cam which I hope to snag. Someone cosplayed Washu from Tenchi, which made me happy. <3Washu. There were some other good ones, there was a fantastic Ryuk from Death Note [and I don't even like Death Note].

For now, just enjoy this most epic King Dedede cosplay:

Absolutely amazing. Sadly, she didn’t win anything although she TOTALLY SHOULD HAVE [because the judges were catty morons who did everything based on opinion, with no scoring system]. Later, I heard, she broke her hammer… poor thing.

Phix and I decided that we’re going to pull of an Excel x Il Palazzo cosplay. For great justice, of course. It’ll be amazing. x]

I didn’t really get to enjoy as much of the rave as I would have liked [which sucked because I had glowsticks and glitter galore]…between broken ribs and irresponsible, untrustworthy teenagers anyway. The latter has been taken care of, supposedly…I’m still highly pissed over it, but whatever.
But yeah, my ribs got broken again! HOORAY. Minds out of the gutter, please, it wasn’t even via fun means, damn it. I has’d a cuddle with phix, and all the sudden his friend Tony, who is rather large, tackles him. And then their friend Blake tackles them. So, on top of Jer’s 180lbs on me–which I can comfortably sustain without issue or discomfort–there was very suddenly an additional 550+, totaling 700+ pounds on top of me, and my ribs that were broken in the accident in September found themselves apart again.
Lemme tell you, I was. not. fucking. happy. That was a hugely unnecessary pain in the ass[/back/torso] because some morons can’t think before they act.
“Hm, Jeremy’s laying down with his girlfriend. She’s small. LET’S TACKLE JEREMY, LOL.”
I forgave them, though. Just because I’m not going to kill them doesn’t mean I’m not annoyed, though.

I didn’t get any pocky though. Murr.

I’ll add to this in a while, but reading the same stuff over and over brings to me a lack of ideas re: what to write about. But it was a good weekend in spite of all the negatives. :]

So I’ve submitted some e-applications and I’ve printed out a shitload more and filled them out. At this point, I think, the completion of job applications has become an action subject to muscular memorization. However, I can’t submit any of my hand-written ones until I am able to get out. I don’t own a bicycle, scooter, or own my own car [let alone have a license], and it is very unsafe to walk to most places here…lack of sidewalks being one of many reasons. Needless to say, I’m not content to be reliant on my father, who is notoriously flaky, for transportation. I was supposed to have my license last September…ugh.

Anyway, while paging through the [poorly written and oft-depressing] newspaper, there were the typical politics articles, the typical, “ZOMG! The economy is crazy,” articles, and actually an interview of me for the teen section in this segment called, “Face in the Crowd,” [I don't normally read the teen section being as it's filled with tripe, but knowing that was going to be published, I clipped and kept it for some odd amusement]. I usually don’t even bother with the Classifieds, with the same thought that the Help Wanted section would be devoid of options for me. [Although I think that's silly...I'm perfectly capable of doing medical transcription and other secretary-type work...I've got a pretty high WPM with a virtually 0% margin of error. But no, because I'm not the age of majority, I'm obviously incapable of handling it.] Instead, I opened it for amusement.

And oddly, I might have found an option. It is by no means something I’d be wildly happy with, but their starting wages are reputed for being fairly high. It is, actually, a hardware place [y'know, hammers, nails, etc. haha] and they need sales reps/cashiers/floor people. Don’t get me wrong, that stuff sucks, but for around here, $10-12 starting at a service job is unheard of. And they do hire minors. Fantastic. Not only that, do they provide medical and dental insurance for their employees as well as flexible schedules and paid vacation. At [nearly] seventeen, just having finished school, I don’t think I’d have much to complain about. It isn’t high-traffic, they don’t have psychotic extended hours [seriously, a night shift would be no later than nine, probably], they don’t open stiflingly early, and the clientele wouldn’t be a bunch of rambunctious kids or teens causing trouble. It isn’t exactly a loitering spot, you see. :3 Also, I don’t foresee it being highly appearance-oriented [unlike, for example, an emeffing trendy clothing boutique]. YAY! That is something I can definitely deal with.
Furthermore, it isn’t far from my house–perhaps a mile or two. That way, until I secure my own license/car, there won’t be much bitching about getting me there/home because it’s maybe five minutes away, MAYBE, and that’s with bad traffic. I’ll have to examine traffic/roads nearby more carefully, perhaps I could even walk. Perhaps. I’m not trying to get raped, and this area is uh, notorious for psychos. :D YAY!

So tomorrow [Monday] morning–HOPEFULLY–I will be striding in there to obtain an application and discussing when I can start. I would say ASAP, but I might steal away a bit north for a week or so after my birthday, whoever-willing.

One of the pluses of taking the tech class I’m taking is if you score higher than an 86, the state pays for you to take the certification exam. I’ve maintained, through the year, a 97. Needless to say, I kinda expected it, but uh..

Earlier this evening, I received an email from my IT teacher stating that it was confirmed that the state would be awarding me what they called a scholarship to pay for me to take my CompTIA A+ certification test within the next calendar year.

That’s pretty exciting; it saves me from putting out a few hundred bucks! I know I will pass it and be able to get, at the least, some lame entry tech job somewhere. Pays better than minimum wage, at least, and I can work on improving in that time.

I am not always punctual and/or prompt with things, but when it comes to work, I am. I was never late at Papaya, and more often than not was I early. I came back from my breaks early. I rarely requested days off–I needed April 8 off to babysit my sister because my parents had plans, and I gave ample notice–and when I did, I gave at LEAST two weeks’ notice. I notified my manager of days I didn’t have school so that I may work if needed. I was generally cheerful [unless otherwise provoked, which was been once...well, twice, by the end of this post.] Three or four times a shift would I take a rack out and reorganize the store so it is tidy and respectable. I didn’t put things in the wrong spots, and I relocated things that are in the wrong spots. I didn’t argue or complain about having to sweep, mop, or having to clean the restroom in the evening. I didn’t sigh when asked to dust the obscenely high racks simply because I was one of the tallest. I didn’t go back perpetually during a shift to get on the phone or to play with my hair. I didn’t have ten friends come in during my shift wanting to talk and/or preventing me from working.

And somehow, despite being what is almost the antithesis of the rest of the employees, I get treated like shit.

Saturday, May 3, I was to work a 12-7 shift. Yay! However, a newer coworker who was scheduled to close last night complained of how it, “wasn’t fair,” that she had to close that night and then open and close the next day. [Saturday 3-9:30, Sunday 11-6.] So, without consulting me to ensure I could make it or acquiring my consent, after she bitched to Chan, he just switched our shifts. This wasn’t even with a whole day’s notice [done the evening of Fri. the 2nd], but a couple hours. What the fuck? I told him that was pretty messed up; he’s aware that I do not yet drive and that I rely on my father for transportation…and that I cannot play musical shifts because of that.
What’s better is, I came in at 2:30 on Saturday, and the girl was gloating about how she was leaving in 2.5 hours. “Sam, aren’t you off at seven?” “Oh, well, I have to go blabla..” “…You took my shift and now you aren’t even going to stay for it? Shut your damn mouth and get out of my sight.”
Just…grr.

So, the prior week, I left a note for Chan, my manager, with some stuff about my availability. It noted that since I had an early dismissal on Friday, the 9th, I was able to work a 12-7 shift if he so chose to put me on as such. Furthermore, it stated that if I was to work on Saturday [10th], that I needed to open, as it was my little sister’s birthday and that my mother required that I be home in the evening for the festivities. [That, and I was to help with the cake. Mom always over-bakes them, and I want to learn how to do my flowers better.] So, that’s two weeks’ notice for those days

The schedule for the week including the ninth and tenth comes out; he put me on for an opener’s position on Friday and a 12-7 on Saturday. I came to him saying that I couldn’t work those shifts, that I simply wasn’t going to avoid school for it, and that the tenth is a family thing that I need to have the evening for.
“Seven is the evening.”
“No, Chan, seven is getting into nighttime, and I need to be home to help prepare. That, and my dad would have to leave in the middle of what all’s going on to come get me…that isn’t right. I gave you more than ample notice, more than what’s required.”
“Well, how about 11-6?”
“No, Chan…if I can’t work from open to four, then I can’t work on Saturday. Period. I need to be home in the afternoon to prepare for her party.”
“You’ll work eleven to six.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“That’s what you’re down as.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t negate these plans. Nor will I. If you have such a problem with it, you’re more than welcome to call my home and tell my family how you seem to think you’re the reigning authority in my life.”

Also, in the aforementioned note, I mentioned that I would not be available from the 16th-18th due to Prom and other personal things. [Three+ weeks' notice for those.]
“Why do you need the weekend off? Prom is on Saturday.”
“Personal business, simply.”
“Like what?”
“That’s personal, and I’m not obligated or at liberty to discuss that with you.”
“Well, I want a reason.”
“Go listen to the Rolling Stones.”
“What?”
“Nevermind. I’m going to have homework, and I will have a guest coming down that weekend who I am obligated to entertain. That’s all I will tell you.”
“Well, why can’t you just–”
“Because I have already made these plans and given you almost a month’s notice. My absence that weekend is not going to end Papaya.”
“What about Friday? Can you open then?”
“Chan, my availability is non-negotiable. I told you this when you interviewed me. My life does not revolve around my job. I cannot open; I have school.”
“There’s no reason why you can’t work Sunday.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Then tell me.”
“I already have: Because I said I cannot. I have plans and I’ll have been out all night before…not to mention my out-of-state company and homework. Sorry.”
“This is big.”
“You act as if I request paid vacation.”
He then walked away.

I’m not really certain where the managers of the stores whose employees work for barely above minimum wage get off on thinking they can regulate the lives of said employees. I don’t understand how they think that if you say you are not available, that, well, if they put you on the schedule, you’re just going to cancel your plans and come into work, because you’re on the schedule.
Sorry, what? I’m nobody’s bitch. Especially not for that wage.

But, as always, it gets better.

I was to go on break at 6:40. The girl whose break preceded mine ended up running a few minutes over. And you know, that’s fine. The group I was working in that evening is all on cordial terms, and we’re understanding of how hectic things can be, with lines, etc. So I don’t end up clocking out and going on mine until almost 6:50. It’s a really busy night, even for a Saturday, and the mall was packed. Any food place had a line from hell, but I was starved. So I got a piece of pizza and a latte and as I’m sipping my caffeinated delight, I realize, “Fuck, the time!” So I walk as quickly as I can without running to spare my pizza and latte, walk into the store, place my things in the back, use the restroom, clock in, and return to work. As I’m punching back in, Chan goes, “You’re LATE.”
And I was, indeed. Like three minutes past the [illegal for minors!] twenty-minute mark. Already annoyed with him and as detestable as I find pointing out the obvious, I just put a smile on and continued walking to the fitting room to sort out the mess of a rack and return things to their proper places.
“I’m TALKING to you.”
“[turning] No, Chan, you’re yelling at me; there’s a difference. One I will tolerate and one I will not.”
So then he starts screaming at me about how I’m violating store policy and how I’m going out of my way to be disrespectful and how I’m making him look bad in front of the rest of the employees and customers. You know, aside from the fact that he’s the one screaming at me in the middle of the store like a damn fool. So, I told him that I had no intention of arguing with him over it and that I would take it up with him once he had calmed himself.
About a half-hour later, he pulls me aside saying he needs to talk to me. He continues to rant about how I’m making such an effort to violate store policy and be rude, etc.
“Chan, if I was making an effort to violate store policy, this store would be enveloped in chaos. I don’t care enough to make it hellish. I wasn’t trying to do anything but eat, which I didn’t even get to do yet. I’m never late. I don’t call out. So one minor issue…does not warrant such treatment.”
He continues as if he didn’t hear me, saying how disrespectful I am.
“Respect? No, respect is a mutual thing, and now that I see that I have none, you receive none either. Not only do you lack respect for your employees do you lack the responsibility and maturity with which to deal with them. Sensibility would have dictated that if you had something to say to me, it would’ve been in the back, away from everyone else…unless you’re just trying to embarrass or shame me into submission, which won’t be done.”
At this point, I was trying not to chuckle at his forced stern expression and his mock intimidation. Obviously it wasn’t working. Shame I’m not other girls, huh? He went on to say that if I can’t follow the rules, then I can’t work there.
“Are you firing me, Chan?”
“No.”
“Only because you don’t want to face a lawsuit or have to fund unemployment, should I file, right?”
He’s laughs. “Lawsuit? Haha, what for?”
“Your blatant violation of the law that dictates breaks for minors.”
“Oho, I know state law. State law says that you get half hour for eight hour shift. You don’t even get one for less, but we give you one. We’re generous.”
“Do you know state law, Chan? Do you really? Because FIRST of all, that is a FEDERAL law–yeah, that’s the people in Washington who can slam you for tax fraud if there’s any of that going down–, and minors–that’s people under age 18–get a half-hour break for every five hours they work, period. But again…I wasn’t trying to break your precious rules. I’m not trying to make you look bad. But if I have to deal with this preposterous bullshit to work here, then to hell with it, I won’t.”
He laughs, thinking I’m bluffing about the breaks. Absolutely not, I’m in the process of gathering all the proper numbers and departments as I type.

The following Monday, Payday, I went in to collect my check. After securing it, I reinforced the idea that I refused to tolerate his attitude and manner of dealing with things.
“Oh, when’s your next scheduled day..?” he asks.
“Perhaps you didn’t understand me because you can’t understand English. Well, I don’t speak Korean so you’ll just have to cope. I quit, I don’t work here, there are no more scheduled days.”
“Oh, no notice?”
“Would you have given me more than five minutes’ notice if you were firing me? No? Alright then.”

And so it ended. :D.

Alright kids, it is pretty evident, I think, that I don’t like to skirt around things. It wastes time/energy/effort; getting right to the point is much more efficient.

Earlier, while at work, I was informed by one of my coworkers that I am, “mean.”

“Mean? Cruel? How am I either? I am only honest. It isn’t my fault that the truth can be as unsightly as it often is.”
“Well so am I, but you’re just a bitch about it, Jenn.”
“I adore these discourses…”
“What? What’s a discourse?”
“Consider retracting that query before I say something you’ll deem, ‘mean.’ Nevermind, I’ll just give you a freebie–these discussions, conversations, etc.”
“Why?”
“It always seems that the people who make such accusations against me are the type of person who is far more complacent with whispering and smirking behind the backs of her victims. Who, then, when caught, vehemently deny having said anything to try to save what little face she has. Unlike that type of person, however, I have, at the very least, modicum of manners and decency…I, unlike she, feels it to be in better taste to allow my victim the ability to retort or challenge me. I am not so high on my metaphorical horse, Heather. Oh no…am I again being cruel?”
She is silent.
“If that’s so…it isn’t without ostensible reason. I don’t make a point of voicing my observations, etc. to hurt or be ‘bitchy;’ there is always provocation, as you, yourself, must have surely noticed by now.”
She’s still silent.

Does honesty equate to bitchiness or cruelty? I see how it can, of course, in excess…but moderation is key, and I tend to abide by that. Hrm..