Now See???

Good Friday turned out to be a bad day for the Shellybird. I was scheduled to work at the Retailtopia that evening 5-9. I'd been lounging all day. I'd decided to take my name off the substitute teacher list for that day because the kids were getting out early for spring break and I had an appointment that morning anyway. It was the hottest day of the year so far--low 80's--and the first hot day always makes me sick. I don't know why, but I always get a headache, and for me headaches are no joke. (I also get migraines, which are far worse than headaches. If you've never had one, I hope you never do.) I felt the headache nagging at me, but I hate pumping myself full of pills if I can avoid it. They make me feel so...chemical-y. I decided to try napping it away. When I woke up to get ready fro work, I was shot to shit. On top of the headache, I think I was having a hot flash. When I left the house, my hair was plastered to my head, and my clothes were plastered to my body. I was driving down the highway with the AC on full blast and the driver's window down for some relief, which never came. The urge to vomit flooded over me, and I knew then I was not going to make it. I pulled over and called my manager to let her know I was too sick to come in. Her response? "OooooKAY." I don't know about you, but I hate being okayed like that. There's such an air of condescension to it. While I've never been a head honcho of anything, I have been a supervisor before, and I was never one to split hairs when employees told me they couldn't come to work for whatever reason. My philosophy is live and let live. I'm still going to get my paycheck regardless of who shows up or who doesn't. Apparently, the Retailtopia system of beliefs involves shafting employees who miss work during the holidays out of a week's worth of pay. I found this out when I went to the store Saturday afternoon to check my schedule for the upcoming week, which is the week we're in now. My manager said, "You're not on next week's schedule because the district manager payed a surprise visit to the store Friday and was angry about how messy and short-staffed it was." Now see??? Ain't that that about a B...Apparently things can always be worse (than the Retail Sewer).

 Let's get something straight: I have 16 (mostly unfortunate) years of retail experience under my belt. I am well aware that Easter comes second only to Christmas as the biggest money-making holiday. Folks lose their collective poo over Easter baskets, because nothing says "Thank-you, Jesus for dying on the cross for my sins!" like jelly beans and marshmallow chicks...If I didn't feel like my head was going to do a re-enactment of "Scanners," if I hadn't felt like I was going to spontaneously combust, I WOULD HAVE BEEN AT WORK. Illness is the hardest working man in the retail business. It doesn't take holidays or vacations. I'm mad as hell about the situation because my unemployment has run out (which was to be expected) and school is out for spring break. There's the radio gig, but I just got paid from there, so the Retailtopia is my only source of income this week. Did they lose any money because I didn't work Friday?I'll answer that. NOPE. If people think they can get anything cheaper st another store than they would at the Food Lion or Wal-Mart, they will run a flaming gauntlet to get it and stand in a check-out line that's 10 miles long to pay for it, bitching the whole time but whatevs. So why not call me in for a come to Jesus meeting? Why not write me up? I think it's real shitty dicking around with someone's livelihood like that. And I know that I said in my last post that the job isn't that serious to me, and it isn't, in terms of spending even 1 year there. HOWEVER, I have showed up on my scheduled days at my scheduled time and done my job to the best of my ability. I've even worked over an extra 4 or 5 hours per the managers request, a request she made right before my shift was supposed to end, more than once. AND THIS IS THE THANKS I GET???

I'm holding my peace right now. No need to act all ghetto when there's the off chance that the store manager might get the district manager to come off his male period long enough to give  me some of my hours back. That chance is looking more and more off each day though because as I'm writing this, it's Wednesday. The time will come though when I WILL  give the district manager a sharing-size piece of my mind for these shenanigans. I have his number saved in my cell phone, to further illustrate the magnitude of my ain't playing-ness.

Peep the last 3 digits of his number....OH, THE IRONY

I can't stand folks who are drunk on power, like their employment is set in stone or something. *DEEP eye roll* I can get that they are trying to run a business , but when you're sick, you're sick. So, yeah, I called out on one of the busiest shopping days of the year...

No, you did NOT, but I felt like I was about to, and THAT is why I didn't come to work.

I Forgot To Tell Y'all Sumpin'

I completely forgot to do a post about my new found employment. Actually, since being fired from the Retail Booty Hole, I have acquired 2 jobs. In November of last year, I was hired by a smaller retail store, and I started there the day before Thanksgiving. (If I ever said "never" regarding retail, I either lied or greatly underestimated the need for Christmas cash.) I was hired by the local school system to be a substitute teacher also. I started doing that a couple of weeks ago.

I'm really not sure what the future holds for me. Are ANY of us??? I wiled away the better part of my 42 years dreaming of being a supermodel. I mean seriously, I wanted that like people want air to breathe....Only they made it happen; they're breathing, but I ain't modeling. Now I'm like a high school senior wondering what to do with my life. The difference is that I don't have that kind of time. When I was in high school, we had to make a collage about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I made mine using pics from the collection of fashion and teen magazines I had amassed over the years, and I didn't half-step with that shit. My collage was TIGHT. After class, I overheard this chick all UPSET because I picked fashion model for my project, like there's only room for one on a runway or something. CHILD, BYE.

Maybe she was jealous because at 5'9", I actually met the high fashion model height requirement, whereas she was like 5'1". (I grew another inch by graduation, so there's that.) I can still see and hear her now: "If she can be a model, I know I can!" Oh, and there were other instances of snickers and snarky comments when I said I wanted to be a model. I wanted that shit to stop. I enjoyed watching the local news back then because I had a massive crush on the sports guy. (I don't know what it was about sports guys back then. They were to me what rock-n-roll front men were to groupies. Go figure.) One night while watching the news, I decided if any teachers ever asked again what we wanted to be when we grew up, I'd say a news anchor. Nobody would laugh at that....and they didn't. As a matter of fact, my 10th grade English teacher suggested a great college with an awesome journalism department. That's how I attended the college I did, majored in broadcast journalism, discovered that I am a pretty decent writer, then decided I didn't want to wind up being sent to some war-torn country and killed as I field reported my way up to the anchor desk, did a radio internship instead and got a job at a local radio station a couple of weeks before college graduation that I got bored with, and got a job working at the Retail Shitter for 15 years that I got fired from in August...In the house that Jack built.

So, I suppose I've come full circle because NOW I'm telling people that I have decided I want to be an elementary school teacher. You didn't really think that I was telling people that I want to move to NYC and make history as the oldest woman to break into the modeling biz and find success, did you? I mean teaching wouldn't be so bad. I love kids. I just really don't feel like that's what I was meant to do. It is only here that I can confess that I am a bundle of nerves everyday hoping my phone won't ring for a substitute teaching job. When I am called, I go, but I'm spinning my wheels there just as much as I am in retail even though I do enjoy being around kids a helluva lot more than grown folks who want haggle over already dirt cheap prices and old men who hit on me on senior citizen's Wednesday.

I just want to be happy, and I'm not. I'm not miserable like I had been less than a year ago, but if I'm not careful, I'm going to wind up that way again. If I can't model--and it's quite possible that I can't--I would like to write short fiction. That's what I love to read; I am an absolute bibliophile. I want to bring readers the same joy that so many writers have brought me. When fans ask Stephen King how to become a writer, and he replies, "Just write," he is absolutely correct. I suppose he also knows the feeling of hating what you've put on paper. After all, his wife rescued "Carrie" from the garbage. I've never had any writing I trashed rescued from the garbage, but I remember it, and it really wasn't worth saving anyway. However, we do need to have a moment of silence for all of the awesome, fanciful ideas that have passed through my head that I DIDN'T put on paper. UGH.

Oh! I haven't given much detail about the retail gig. It's a very small company; I have always said that this particular store was a step above Goodwill. They sell refurbished electronics, flawed/out-of-season/overstock clothing from other retailers*, a small selection of grocery items (YES! We accept EBT, in case you're wondering). The staff is very small, and I am still forced to wear navy blue and khaki, but it is what it is. Strangely enough, one (of a precious few) highlights about working there is the fact they aren't open 24 hours. We close at 9pm every day except Sunday, when we close at 8pm. I love that last hour before closing time when we have to clean the windows and vacuum. I'm not much for scullery work, but in this instance it's symbolic of getting the hell out, and I am all about getting the hell out. I guess I could call the  place "Retailtopia", but at 15 hours a week/$7.25 an hour...hm. I do what's asked of me, but "above and beyond the call of duty" ain't happening, and I know that I won't be there 15 years. Screw that. Shellybird is just passing through. Heading where though, I do not know.

*Don't sleep on flawed/out-of-season/overstock clothing. Y'all ain't cute. I have gotten all kinds of outfits from that store. I may never be a supermodel, but I'll certainly be able to dress like a supermodel's personal assistant.

This Could Be The Start Of Something Big

I have always struggled with my weight, and by that I mean it's always been a struggle to keep meat on my bones. Up until I hit the big 4-0, I was at least 10-15 pounds underweight. I was teased about it as a kid. My mom was always worried that CPS was going to take me away from her due to malnutrition--she's always been dramatic. When I was in college, my phys ed teacher had me keep a food diary because I was "very anorexic looking," her words. Whenever I griped about being too thin, overweight people never failed to remind me how "lucky " I was. Oh I can't tell you the number of times they told me, "I used to be your size when I was young. You better be glad you're small because once you start putting weight on, it's hard to stop and harder to take off!" Well I will have you to know...that they were absolutely right. Middle-age spread is HERE with 4 large suitcases asking which bed is hers.

I'm the stick wearing the bitchin' 80's glasses!

I am 5'10', and I now weigh 144lbs. Somewhere along the way, I've gone from a size 6 to a size 10. I'm not skinny anymore; I have a small frame, so I'm slender/curvy...with a gut. Even though I hated being a stick, I was an aspiring model and took pride in the fact that Naomi Campbell and I had the same stats. Naomi never looked bony because years of ballet gave her that awesome physique. Aaaaand now I outweigh her by almost 20lbs. Wowsers. When I put on weight, it goes right to my hips and stomach. At this point, I could easily park in the expectant mother space at the mall with no questions asked, but I'm too vain to be seen out without having sucked it in. (I have to suck so hard now, I see spots.) I've always eaten recklessly in an attempt to bulk up and...I'm Southern. You do the math. I'm a serial snacker too. I never eat A doughnut or A taco. They die together like Thelma and Louise, honey.*

I haven't had a slice of cake in years. I eat WEDGES of cake. A slice of pie doesn't exist in my world; 1/4 of the pie on my plate is how I roll. Sunday night, during the "CSI: Miami" marathon, I ate half of a Sara Lee apple streusel pie in 2 hours by eating 2 slices. I stood at the stove and stared at the remaining pie chanting to myself, "I ate half a pie. I ate half a pie." Sara Lee--or the random hair netted individual in the Sara Lee kitchen--is a bomb ass cook though, so you can't really blame me. If Paula Deen hadn't ripped her draws, I'd probably be wearing a bed sheet now. Her sour cream pound cake was the bombbbbbbbbb, and I can't find it anywhere. All I got is this pic, making my mouth water. Dang it.

Since my parting of the ways with the Retail Skid Mark, I have been doing a lot of "because it's there" eating. It was the aforementioned pie that brought the realization that I need to slow my roll and kept me from ordering my usual 2 soft tacos at Taco Bell. I only ordered one, and my stomach was still growling 5 minutes after the last bite.

When I get out of the shower (don't try to get a visual, freaks), I give myself a good once over. Cellulite on my thighs, stomach, butt, AROUND MY KNEES...If I become officially fat, I can see exactly where my "rolls" will be. When I bend over or sit down, it feels funny having all of that belly fat just above the area where my uterus is. It feels like I'm made of paper and I can feel myself creasing as I'm being folded in half. Time to fix this before it becomes unfixable and I wind up on one of those weight loss shows bursting into tears after 2 jumping jacks. I'm not being mean; I've seen it, and I don't want it to happen to me. It's sad when it happens to anyone. Planet Fitness or Curves, I'll see you in January. I'm certainly not going to start an exercise regimen now. It's 3 days before Thanksgiving, just over a month before Christmas, and I done told y'all one time I'm Southern.

The hips and ass formerly known as a size 6...

        

 *Thelma and Louise died at the end of..."Thelma and Louise." Not really sure how this could be a spoiler when you've had 23 years to see it, but ok.

Just Random Nuptual Awesomeness

People keep having awesome nontraditional weddings, both in attire and ceremony, and I just keep getting singler (not a word about how that's not a word)...I want to go nontraditional, but when I finally get married, all of the awesome ideas will have been used. I ain't above copying though. Here's the latest. Beyoncé's baby sis Solange ties the knot in NOLA and she has some stunning pics to let the world know that she's no longer one of "da single ladies." *SIGH*

...Still Here...Lordt

Hey, y'all! I'm still here, and STILL enjoying my Retail Septic Tank-free life. I wish I could say that I'm writing this post in a Brooklyn brownstone, but alas, I'm still down South. I've put off my move until April. Leading up to my supposed departure for the Big Apple--when I was still planning to go this month--I would get this sick/anxious/excited feeling. I was having trouble focusing on apartment and job searching....I was something of a wreck. I want it BAD, but I wasn't ready. I am 42. This is a one shot deal for me because of my age and finances. I can't fcuk it up. The walls are closing in, though, and the family be trippin'. I may not make it to NYC, but I have DEFINITELY got to get the hell away from here. I'd even consider staying in the South, but somewhere like Myrtle or Virginia Beach. I frigging LOVE the beach. The settings on my sound spa alternate between rainy day and ocean. Always. Anywhore, now I'm just waiting for April and bracing myself for the coldest winter ever.

A Boyfriend Would Be Nice...

**For her next trick, the lovely and capable Shellybird will attempt a blog post while weeping and balled up in a fetal position on her couch.**

Hahaha, not really but..really. I squired dear old mom to the grocery store yesterday afternoon, and I ran into my ex boyfriend's mom (a super sweet lady), who happens to be my mommy's high school classmate. While they chattered about septuagenarian life--aches, pains, who from the c/o 1958 has passed away since the last reunion--I flitted around picking up stuff mommy needed. I got back to them and joined the convo. I dared ask how "Ray" my ex was doing. She let me know he was fine, had bought a home, and he's working towards another degree. Awesome! Oh, and his GIRLFRIEND that he met a year or so after I broke up with him is selling her house so they can build a nest together. Um...What the fuque???????

Here's a little background for you: Ray was my first boyfriend. We met as students at the local community college. We were together a collective 17 years; there were breakups in between, during which time he got married and eventually divorced. I had dates here and there, fell in love at the age of 27 with an emotionally abusive 19-year-old and became engaged to him. (That obviously didn't work out because y'all haven't seen me on "Snapped," have you???) After all of that Ray and I got back together, and of course everyone assumed we would get married and live happily ever after. Coming back together like that totally signifies that it was meant to be, right? Well, no...actually, everyone including me was DEAD WRONG. We dated for 6 or 7 more years, and every Christmas, I waited for my engagement ring. My "ring" came in the form of a digital camera, a couple of expensive earring and necklace sets, or cash if he ran out of ideas. He was the only guy I dated that my mommy liked, and occasionally she throws him in my face, and I QUOTE: "Well if you'd hung on to Ray, you'd be married and have those babies you always wanted." LORDT. Yes, he was/is mannerable, a hard worker, he doesn't have babies and an assortment of baby mamas, AND he has no police record--a real prize some might say. However, at the end of the day, I just could not deal with taking the backseat to his mother, his job, or whatever was on the SciFi channel. I wanted to be a wife, not a girlfriend that he called when he "remembered." I didn't want to be taken for granted any longer, so when we had a heart-to-heart and he more or less let me know that he was comfortable in the place we were in our relationship--limbo, as far as I was concerned--I ended it. I was in my late-30's at the time and he was in his early 40's, TOO damn old to be "dating"! Even Joanie and Chachi got married. Come ON.

...Sorry, that was a lot of background. Anyways, here I am, 42 years old, single, and childless, and my ex-boyfriend is probably working toward his second marriage. I don't understand, and I certainly don't think it's fair. I don't begrudge anyone the opportunity to be happy--LEAST of all myself. I still have the "here and there" dates, but the closest I've come to a date OR sex in the past 10 months are the biweekly manicures from my (sexy) Vietnamese nail tech. His hands are so soft, and I don't know what he puts in his hair, but it's absolutely intoxicating. I would be remiss if I didn't share that his body is TIGHT. Oh, WAYMENT...Since my unceremonious release from the Retail Chamber Pot (BOO-YA), I've stopped getting my nails done to save money. I ain't even getting hand sex now.

Now How Hard Was That?

So here's what happened yesterday: For the first time in the 6 1/2 weeks since I got fired, I went back to "the store." (And yes, I've run out of clever/snarky names synonymous with sewage to use in reference to my former place of employ, but if I come up with anything else, I'm on it. Word is bond, son.) Anyways, I took out a loan a year or so ago and unemployment insurance is part of the deal. The insurance form has a portion to be filled out by the previous employer. I dragged my ass for 3 solid weeks before finally taking it in to be filled out. It went smoother than I thought, but I certainly didn't think it would. I managed to stress myself into a lovely little tension headache/migraine/brain-on-fire type ailment that didn't clear itself up until hours after I got home. I still have a slight hangover from it, but I don't feel nearly as bad as I did before, thanks for asking. I ran into a few former co-workers while I was there, which was expected and dreaded. Hell, I went in through a rear entrance to avoid seeing anyone because I'm hardcore like that. I only received a hug from 1, which was perfectly fine with me. He's like a brother and has called me several times with advice and just to check in and make sure I'm okay. One other lady, who isn't really a friend but has always been nice, asked what I planned to do now. I told her about my NYC plans. A few others just said hi, and I responded in kind like nothing ever happened and I was still on the payroll. Overall though, if we didn't swap words while I was there, there's no need to be phony, all poking in my business now for the sake of having something to talk about later. I hate that. Being the Southern Belle that I am though, I made DANG sure I didn't roll up in that piece looking like "the struggle." My hair, nails, wardrobe, and makeup (read: lipstick, which is all I wear) were ON POINT. Homie don't play looking busted in the presence of mine enemies, be it a former employee, ex boyfriend, or whatever. One of the newer managers, a HOTTTTT Hispanic guy, saw me and said hi. I spoke to him as well, and was flooded with regret that THAT potential for flirtatious workplace diversion went down the tubes 6 1/2 weeks ago. Ohhhhh, the way he looks at you with those deep set eyes, WOO....but I digress.

While writing this, my internal alarm went off. I just read over the form, and the woman in personnel wrote that the reason for my termination was "misconduct with write-ups," the same inaccurate bs that almost cost me my unemployment benefits. It was in my file though, so that's all she could write. Bright side? I was spared the awkwardness of seeing the manager who tricked me into believing I WASN'T getting fired and had me hang around after my shift ended TO get fired and I didn't have to see the one who actually did the firing. Enough time hasn't passed for that to have been anything other than ugly. Whether or not the unemployment insurance covers this isn't a concern of mine at this point. It might be LATER, but certainly not now. I'm still riding on the high of freedom from retail, and I really don't want to come down.

Since I survived my first foray into the store post termination I think I am now prepared to bust up in there any old time. My mom needs a pair of those compression hose that she has to wear, so I'll swing by there this week after I get my hair done. My former place of business is one of the few places that sells them at a reasonable price, and I'll definitely do what I have to do for the woman who gave me life, no biggie. I'll just use the rear entrance like a boss.