Only in Alaska…
…as my mom would say – We live in Alaska – we make our own fun!
As I was driving my son to work today, we saw a helicopter land in the Stanley Ford lot, pick up some people and take off again. They are apparently giving rides, so we drove over, watched, then I took him to work. That’s not the funny part though…
The funny part is this: Picketing in front of the dealership was a man with a sign. I didn’t manage to get a picture of him, because I just laughed it off. What it said though, was this:
“Do not shop here! They are disrespectful to employees!”
I snorted, and said something like “Welcome to having a job, jackass. Oh, wait, ya probably DON’T anymore..” And went on with my life, figuring they’d shoo him off sooner or later.
Well. They did. Or he left. Or something. Because here we are at the Funkey Monkey for coffee and writing, still giggling at the signs we saw – and got pictures of! – on our way through town. Seems Stanley had his own signage ideas….
(click to embiggen)
They say, front to back:
Honest, hard working detailer
To replace THIS GUY.”
And I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
God, I love my town.
Do you ever…
…have that dream where you forget some important article of clothing, and you are ridiculed because of the fact? Ever have it come TRUE?
Yeah, no. Me either.
HOWEVER. Let me introduce you to my Friday.
It started out innocently enough. Got up, got showered, muttered about how freakin early it was, got The Boy up, and into the car. Then, the line at McDonalds was too long – AND at the coffee shop. So no Coffee. Grr. Went to work anyway, and breakfasted on an Apple Fritter, and a starbucks frap thingy from the cooler by the checkouts.
I tried to prepare myself mentally for the things I knew I had to accomplish today. I wouldn’t set foot on the floor – it would be the girls’ responsibility to do so today as I had both on the clock – and I’d finish those damn MTRs (store merch transfers) if it killed me. And it might, as I had to break down a pallet of shoes first, and then tackle and build at least two more MTR pallets.
For those that don’t work retail – here’s the MTR process:
–Find boxes. Lots of them
–Set up an empty pallet (6 of them by the time we were done)
–Curse because the first box you pick up has already had the bottom broken out of it and is useless.
–Locate another box
–Set it on the aforementioned pallet.
–Pick up the scanner, and set up the correct screens to create the correct paper work.
–realize, occasionally, that you missed a step.
–start over with the correct screens.
–Scan each and every item going into that box. Not a big deal for say, shorts and easily foldable things. Bras? PAIN IN THE ASS. Just saying.
–Wonder about the tediousness of your life.
–Keep scanning.
–Barely remember to write the paperwork number on the box
–Guess, a couple times, because barely remembered = whoops, forgot
–Finalize report
–close up box.
This. goes on. for HOURS. All in preparation for the last step, which is where you downstack the pallets one by one, get the Manager to sign all the paperwork, put it in the correct boxes, restack the pallet, wrap it in plastic wrap, and deliver it to the back room and the truck that will haul it out of there to another store that needs the merchandize more than we do at the moment.
I’ve been doing this for the better part of THREE DAYS – and it’s ALL I did today. Yeah. So. There was that, that I was working on…
Anyway – after a minor RARSMASH moment with someone at work who was being an inconsiderate dumbass, I stomped to the baler to toss my cardboard from breaking down my shoe pallet inside. I had The Boy come help me toss it in, as it was heavy, and he’s a big strong boy, standing right there. Another MS was waiting by and I was gonna help her toss her empty pallets to the pallet stack in the back when we were done.
It was not to be.
You see, my son? He’s a hugger. And he is STRONG. And he thinks it’s funny when he hugs me so hard that he picks me up and I go “OMG OW PUT ME DOWN” at which time he pats my head and calls me his little mommy and I ground him and he wanders off to do his job again.
This time, though.
THIS TIME…
He says “give me a hug” and I go “oh dear” and he picks me up and I hear a SNAP. I’m like “Ah! you broke me!” and then? I realized?
He did.
Ok, so not ME – but my brand new fancy royal blue lace front clasp bra that was SHEER AWESOME because not only did it fit, but it made the girls stand up and go HI! and well, – royal. blue. lace. His hug exerted just that last bit of pressure, too much stretch as my back arched or something and SNAP – the clasp BROKE IN HALF.
There is not a bra anywhere that can contain the awesome of me bewbs, it seems.
I’m like trying to see what happened, and send him off to help C with her pallets, while she laughs hysterically, and beat feet to the bathroom. Bra is beyond repair. Shit. Good thing I work in apparel, right? I dash to the fitting room, and everyone is all “are you sick? Are you ok?” because I’m HOLDING MY BRA CLOSED and I’m like no – MY BRA BROKE WHEN I WAS HUGGED – and they all laughed, and I find a bra, and slip into the fitting room, trying to be sneaky and sly while I change and take care of this problem and hear…
“Attention all associates, the morning meeting will be at the Fitting Rooms.”
…
…
…
YOU GOTTA BE SHITTING ME. It’s been at Sporting Goods all damn week, and TODAY, while I’m trying to FIND A BRA THAT FITS so I can work my MTRs without FLAPPING IN THE BREEZE and they call the meeting for all associates TO THE FITTING ROOM.
I did manage to find ONE bra in the WHOLE STORE that fit. Got changed. Got it paid for. Got to the meeting. Saw my son. Glared. Relented. Laughed about it. A LOT.
After that – everyone gave him shit, I gave him shit, Everyone gave me shit, we all laughed and I worked the hell out of those MTRs and we got them to the truck with 45 minutes to spare – despite the backroom mgr telling me I couldn’t do it. He’d better never doubt me again.
🙂
Oh, and PS?
The boy is now FORBIDDEN to hug his girlfriend.
EVER.
Just sayin.
Things…
…that I’ve done today instead of book revisions:
1. Phoned a Friend.
2. Took a Nap
3. Ate Breakfast. At Noon.
4. De-leafed and trimmed Rhubarb with Nana in hopes of Rhubarb Crisp in the nearish future.
5. Went Shopping With Nana at Ze Competition.
6. Snorted that Mah Store is Bettah.
7. Drank Coffee.
8. Watched episodes of My Drunk Kitchen:
(…I think I love her. *L* )
9. Made this Post.
…..running out of excuses. I think it’s time to hit the nook and read. Yeah. heh.
…i don’t get it.
…what is the deal with scarves? EVERYTHING Comes with a scarf now. WHY? Am I missing something important? SOMEONE TELL ME.
I must be fashion challenged.
…like that’s a surprise to anyone. Heh.
Twelve.
Last week, The Pup did the unthinkable.
She turned 12.
TWELVE.
Really, what did I do to deserve this?!
So flash back to a couple years ago, in fifth grade, where the Pup discovers a desperate desire to learn to play the french horn. We talk to the band leader at the elementary school, and the one who teaches Jr. high and High School, and are told to start her on Trumpet. Flash back to two years of OMGLOUD while she not only learns it, but this year – lands the coveted first chair in her 6th grade band.
But still – STILL. The longing for the horn…. OH how she wanted to play the French Horn. Ms. S. told her that it would take private lessons, as making the switch is not very easy, and not all Trumpet players can become French Horn players. Ms. S plays trumpet, and does not play the French Horn, so she knows of what she speaks. The Pup looked at her mournfully, and sighed that it would be ok, she knew we couldn’t afford the lessons, so she’d just stick with the Trumpet.
INORITE?! SIGH.
So, I did what every mother on the planet would do. I made the call. I called Ms. S. and arranged a meeting with her, without telling the Pup. We spoke of the difficulties, and the challenges, and the possibilities. And we came up with a plan: I’d get the Pup lessons all summer, we’ll rent the French Horn for the summer, and the pup’s bandmates would be none the wiser – if she can make the switch (according to her summer teacher, who will tell it true) she will. If not, she’ll return to Trumpet in the fall, and we’ll know which horn she was meant to play. She loves the trumpet too – so it’s win-win, really.
Of course – I told the pup none of this. I sent in the cash to the teacher for the rental, without putting an instrument on the list – Ms. S was in the loop, of course. Then, on the first morning I got to see the little brat after her birthday (she was on the 6th grade camping trip ON her birthday. SOB) we had this conversation:
Me: Oh, by the way. I’m not renting you a trumpet for the summer. Sorry.
Her: WHAT? But Mom! You already paid!!!
Me: Sorry, i decided not to.
Her: …did you buy me one? (Not even hopeful)
Me: Pfft. You know I can’t afford that.
Her: DRAMATICSIGH I know. I can’t even get lessons.
Me: I can too afford lessons. So I’m not renting you a trumpet.
Her: …what? I don’t understand….
Me: I rented you a French Horn.
Her: But… I TOLD MS S. WE WERE RENTING A TRUMPET.
Me: I told her we were renting a French Horn.
Her: BUT I TOLD HER A TRUMPET YESTERDAY
me: but _I_ told her last week…
Her: (finally dawns that I’m not fucking with her -well, much) OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU.
Me: I am pretty fuckin’ awesome, I know. Pick up the French Horn. Your private tutor will be calling next week.
Her: (noisy squeals only a dog could hear, excitement, hugs, BESTBIRTHDAYEVER, off to school)
So. This is how our summer will be:
God help us all.
