Top 9 Grossest Things I've Touched

     Today, and I felt a lumpy plastic bag right before getting out of work, I realized there are many things I've been unfortunate enough to have touched while at work or leaving work. I've decided to take a little breather from the public acts of audacity to bring you a special presentation of randomness! And without further ado, starting the countdown was what I squished between my fingers in the last few minutes of work today:

9) Dog Poo

• State Parks in my state have a carry-in carry out policy. The trash you bring in is what you take. People get irate when they go trash picking and then come to me and ask me to throw it away, saying that they didn't bring it in, that they were doing me a favor by collecting it off the rocks. It's not my job to get the trash off the rocks. Frankly, the people of this particular town are very environmentally conscious, so I don't know why there's that much trash in the first place, or why they would balk at making their place more clean. Second of all, the park I work at is pretty understaffed. There are 2-3 people who have to go around cleaning and maintaining two entire parks, so there will definitely be trash left over. 
• This was a big intro because people don't realize that their dog's manure is technically "carry-in", and there's no way I want to smell their dogs' feces in the private garbage all day long. 
• The bag that was left for me was not warm, thank goodness, but the horrifying revelation of squishing it and picturing Fido squeezing one out really got my stomach going in loops. Not a happy end of the day.

It was an accident, I swear.
Cuteness from: Dog University

8) Month Old Ham

• While cleaning the refrigerated sandwich station at your local Coffee-Donut Shop, I saw the bottom was filled entirely with slimy off-yellow fluid. I was concerned immediately since God knows how long it'd been since the squishiness had been mopped up. As I knelt wrist-deep in sludge, I noticed a plastic bin we usually keep our food in, and unearthed it. Inside was perfectly portioned slices of ham that would have originally expired a month earlier. This ham, however, lived under the other bins of "edible" food, collecting mold and relinquishing moisture, so it resembled the consistency of the pig ears I would give my dog. Except, I would never give this to my dog. To unruly customers, maybe. 
• In all seriousness, I was so afraid of this tainted meat that I threw the entire plastic bin and the ham into the trash. No amount of soap and suds would erase the atrocities from the plastic. The ham rates slightly higher on the scale of grossness just because at one point, it had been intended for human consumption, and I honestly have no idea how much longer it would have stayed down there.  

7) Mangled, Drooled on Leftover Breakfast Food and Soiled Napkins

• Working in breakfast places can be rewarding, but most of the time, it's awful. I worked in a breakfast place for mere months and couldn't wait to be free of it. I was a busser. I got to clean up all the tables once the kids were done grinding their scrambled eggs and bacon into the carpet. I wouldn't have minded so much if people would have let me be what I should have been: messy. 
• The tables have to be cleared quickly so the waitress/waiter can have as many tables (aka as many tips) as possible, so I used to really throw myself into the work, not stopping until my buss-bucket was so full it was a real physical effort to lug it back to the kitchen. This makes me sweaty. The next time you lift 25 pounds every 4 minutes for 8 hours, let me know how you feel. 
• Tables are loaded with all sorts of goodies like food that has missed people's mouths, or in unfortunate cases, had once entered their mouth and was then either accidentally dropped or intentionally spit from their mouth. Plus the kids just love to play with all the creamers and sugar packets, so you have to deconstruct about 30 pyramids of non-dairy creamers per day. Wet napkins and wadded up straw wrappers set off my nausea just because it's kinda squishy (lots more squishy things in the countdown to come!)
• I think knowing that most of the items I touched were around someone's mouth is what made this pretty gross. People I don't know. Mouths that have been on places I don't want to know. 

6) Horseshoe Crab Poop

• By far, THE most disgusting feces of anything I've had the displeasure of touching thus far is from our friend, the Horseshoe crab. Being millions of years old and such, I guess I should show her and her poop some respect.
• So what does horseshoe crab defecation look like? Picture dryer lint. Now picture it coated in an odd, squishy, clear, viscous gelatin that has the tendency to stick to everything and anything, but somehow stays together long enough to float around like a slimy ghost. 
• What's the consistency of horseshoe crab defecation? Picture the meanest, biggest, worst wad of snot rocket that you can remember from the bullies in elementary school. 
• My coworker, the owner of the delightful cat that has his own blog, Ask Tazi!, can attest to the grossness of this prehistoric animal. 
• Considered higher on the grossness list because I have to touch it repeatedly. Sometimes multiple times per day.

5) Garbage Consisting of Diapers, Cigarettes, Old Food, and Sanitary Items

• As my finger rips through the flimsy trashbag that my numbnuts coworker decided to fill to the brim with heavy objects, I notice a slender object covered in blood. The fear of contracting Hepatitis hits me before the disgust. As I fling the 40 pound bag of garbage that, thankfully, tears mid-air and sprays its filthy contents everywhere, I can't help but to wonder why it would be okay to throw away a used tampon in the garbage can of a coffee shop. Those little boxes near the toilets in most public bathrooms? Yeah. They have a very important purpose. 
• We are a wasteful society, and getting rid of that waste is not a happy job. I've tried wearing gloves, but it's more of a hassle as I can't grip the massive bag well enough to heave it into the giant garbage receptacle. The bags are so heavy, I feel my bag muscles strain like a flimsy swing-set holding a fat kid who's swinging too high for the metal beams to handle. No? Aww c'mon, surely you remember the days when you finally realized you couldn't use the swingset anymore because the whole thing would lift right out of the ground. 
• Anyhoo, still warm coffee grinds, cigarettes and cigarette ashes, still full coffees and beverages that magically overturn and splash only when I pick them up, week old diapers (baby and adult), food containers from places besides the coffee shop, and all sorts of crap that inevitably ends up all over me, or on the ground so I have to then scoop it into the trash, makes this a high contender for something I can't stand.

4) Dying Seagull

• Used tampons are a stationary, deadly predator. A giant winged rat known as a seagull is a highly mobile, surprisingly large cause of concern if it's scared and ready to bite. Plus fears of any sort of avian illnesses or bacteria, and my fear of birds as modern-day Raptors:

Top: Predatory Bird, Below: Raptor. 

• So, at work fairly recently, a woman told me there was an injured seagull on the rocks and that I should probably do something about it, so I went down and...I was a completely wuss! I was so terrified that this two and a half foot long bird was going to leap up and slash at me with her beak. But she stayed so still that I thought she had already died. Luckily, she seemed to be okay, and the woman transported her to a local wildlife rehab center that's attached to the vet clinic. I've taken ducks and birds there before, and they were so kind and helpful. Still...not a fan of birds.
  
  [Photo Credits: Burdur.com and Doggys Webosaurs Blog, respectively] 

3) Rotting Fish

• Feeding the fish at work is an awesome experience, and quite honestly, seeing them eat makes me happy because it means I'm doing something right. However, it's also a huge source of my daily nausea. The freezer that contains the delectable delights for our fish is the very same fridge/freezer combo that houses our very own food for lunch. The freezer section of the fridge is downright miniscule, so this awesome thing happens where the extra food can't fit, and becomes soggy and rotty instead of freshly frozen. 
• Some of the fish require bite-sized pieces, so ripping apart frozen fish is fine, but ripping apart fleshy fish and having the innards spurt out like a ketchup squeeze-bottle under too much pressure is just too much. And the smell....oh my. I actually need to move along to the next point, because I'm getting sick just thinking of it.

2) Human Urine and Feces

• The same hands that make your coffee and grab your donuts have also cleaned the undersides of toilet-seats and piss stains. Dear, loyal, kind customers have the same afterproducts of energy acquisition as every other human being. It's...unpleasant. I guess I don't mind cleaning my own toilet because it's mine; I know where I've been, what I've eaten, that I harbor no freakish necrotic flesh diseases or parasites. 
• But to all of you who look at a public toilet, see the container for where the things belong, and then willingly choose to instead drop the load on the ground, all over the back of the toilet seat, or leave it in there for me to find later, I have a big SCREW YOU coming your way. If it's that hard to control yourself from crapping on the floor, or you feel the need to sit all the way back on the toilet so that your...ahem....orifice is pointed directly at the porcelain instead of the open bowl, might I suggest a litter box or Depends (TM). At the very least make an effort to clean up after yourself. If I see stuff is smeared around in an attempt to clean, I'll feel infinitely better than just a perfectly untouched puddle of urine. Remember that there is always someone who has to clean it up. Picture your dearest loved one having to pick it up and clean up your latest anal catastrophe. Don't picture me doing it, lest you decide to go all out and have Activia (TM), Mini-Wheats (TM), prunes, Metamucil (TM), and Milk of Magnesia just to spite me. 

1) Dead Cat

• The absolute worst was heading home from the coffee shop and seeing a cute little friend in the road. To prevent further mangling, I pulled over to move the cat and hopefully find the owner. I love animals, and I especially love cats, so seeing him so still and lifeless was the worst thing because it brought to a head that knowledge that any cat I would ever own would die. (I've got a phobia of death, it's better not to talk about it. Only years of mental help or my own impending death can fix me now.)
• I was in such a state of delirium over the grief I felt for the cat, that I thought it was still alive. The whiskers moved ever so slightly, and all at once I hoped the cat was alive and dead. I didn't want it to be dead, and yet, I definitely didn't want it alive and in pain that would result in more agony if I moved him. I thought of all the times he'd never sleep in a sunny window or meow happily for food, or secretly scratch the couch when his owner wasn't home, and grew more depressed by the second. In the middle of the two lane road where the speed limit was 50 mph, I had my emergencies on and my driver door open wide so hopefully I wouldn't get obliterated by oncoming traffic. I held out a flimsy sweatshirt I had never worn towards the cat and rested it over him lightly. I tried to pick him up, but he was still fluffy and soft and life-like. I finally lifted him, only a red stain left on the cement, and placed him gingerly into a paper bag. I covered him so I wouldn't have to see his little orange face. I felt guilty even though it wasn't my cat. If he had been my cat, I wouldn't have been as stupid as to let it be an outdoor cat in the middle of Maine next to a notoriously busy road where roadkill of all shapes and sizes happens every single night. I tried to stop bawling like an infant long enough to make the trek to the local neighbors and ask who was missing an orange cat. 
• The charming man I met when I asked who the cat belong to....well. That's a blog for another day.

________________________________________________________________________

Our family's cat, Maybelline, who died a few years ago, most likely
the victim of a fishercat or coyote attack.
Keep your domestic pets indoor animals!

The Shuttle Bus From Hell (Part 2)

Sorry this post has been severely delayed; intense week, but I'm sure you know better than anyone that life is generally stressful. Welcome back to my evil shuttle bus re-telling! Last time on my blog, I talked about the types of people that would take the bus, and ended with the angry dbags that would delight in throwing things everywhere. I forgot a few types of people on the other list:

6) The Troublemakers. The ones who start drama before the van even leaves the parkinglot, or those who knowingly exchange glances with other people on the van that there is someone on there who is "like totally not cool". I think the most infamous time I had with troublemakers was when there were international students on the bus, and some people on both sides started with racist comments. I was over-tired, not sleeping enough, barely eating to the point I lost thirty pounds, never catching a moment to myself, and bitter and annoyed at how my circle of friends was crumbling. So when they started with the racism, I snapped. I said if they didn't stop with the racist comments, I'd drive off the road and we'd all die together, racism be damned. Of course I didn't mean it. Let me stress this again, I had ZERO intentions of driving off the road with a van full of people. Are you still reading? I would NOT have driven off the road, but they were drunk, so yeah, they believed me. And if they didn't believe me, they now knew I was bat-shit crazy and that they should probably shut up. Either way, it worked. Do I suggest doing that to help in future situations? Hell no. Don't do it.

7) The Ones You Worry About. They're kind and excited for the evening; too excited. You see them coming back to the van, bouncing off their friends like a ping-pong ball and giggling and hiccuping old rum. It's someone's birthday, and the birthday girl is goooooone like the wind. I'm so worried about this particular girl who can't even keep her eyes open, so I ask if they can let her sit in the front seat instead of the often loud and boisterous backseats. The girl in the passenger seat is so silent--an oddity in a group of people who are still excited about the evening. I try to keep the music to a dull roar since the others want to keep their good time going, and I don't want the girl next to me to be sick. She curls into a ball, wound around the seatbelt uncomfortably, head pressed against the cool glass of the window for some blessed relief from the nausea and the heat of one too many drinks. Each bump I drive over sends her head smacking heavily against the window, but she still doesn't move. As we stop at a local gas station for munchies, her friends try to give her water, but her stomach threatens to rebel. In a van full of intoxicated young adults, the last thing you want to do is have one person be sick. It'd be a catastrophic domino affect of putrescence.

You worry, but as long as they're not in danger, there's really nothing else to do but to go back to campus and sleep it off and accept that there's going to be a crappy morning ahead of you.

All in all, the whole job wasn't too bad. It was a paycheck. I got to listen to the radio all the time, so I got to listen to all the music I wanted (now I have no idea what's popular on the radio, which I guess is sometimes a good thing, ever since freakin "Call Me Maybe" exists), and the job definitely worked around other things since it happened in the middle of the night. Definitely not the worst job out there, but I still think the newbies have it easy since it was myself and the others who got the brunt of the assault. :P until next time--and again, sorry about the delay.

The Shuttle Bus from Hell (Part 1)

One of the worst jobs I've ever had in my life involved giving up my weekends to bring other people out to have a good time. It was a simple job really; basically an over-glorified taxi-cab, but instead of the usual New Yorker passengers, it was a bunch of college drunkards. And instead of a stereotype with beaded seats and hard to understand accent, there was me: awkward underclassmen who needed to grow a pair and lay down the law but never did.

My weekend consisted of: coffee shop from 6am-noon, then the shuttle job from 12:45-6pm, and then again from 8:45pm-1am-ish and then pass out for a couple of hours to repeat the whole lovely thing for Sunday. It was awful because I'd be so tired that I'd fall asleep at the wheel (Oddly enough, I'd only fall asleep if it was only me in the van, and I could still drive/sleep with my eyes open). It was awesome because I didn't have time to think between school and work, so I stressed myself almost 30 pounds lighter. My coworkers and I were the first ones to do the shuttle ever, so we got the short end of the stick. I'd talk to people after who had my old job, and they'd say how fun it was, and how it wasn't that bad.

Clearly, it was because my coworkers and I were the ones the got shat on because we were the first and didn't know what to expect. I'll give a few scenarios of a typical night:

1) Fifty thousand girls in the tiniest dresses ever fabricated by Malaysian sweatshop workers, who decided to don these second-skin outfits in the middle of February. Okay, admittedly I'm exaggerating. The van only held about ten people, and barely 1,300 people even attended the school. But try telling 18 pushy, angry, pre-gamed undergrads that there's no more room when it seems like everyone had supposedly been waiting in line before someone else. Even when I'd tell them I wasn't allowed to have more people, they all squeezed their giddy, horny, drunk selves into the seats and bellow at me to crank the tunes. Good times.

2) Was money ever collected? Funny. Instead of a normal number, the fee they'd have to pay was $4 or something equally asinine. So no one ever had change, and they didn't trust the drivers to be able to make change for a $20, so it was either all or nothing. They'd all tell me they would pay for the ride on the way back, and then none of them would take the shuttle back.

3) The Hyper Ones. Shrieking at the tops of their voices, butchering every pop song and squealing "this is my songggg!!!" to every song, it was easy to get a headache. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't get excited. Their happiness was infectious. For a moment I felt part of the crowd and that we were all going to have an epic time downtown. For a moment, I didn't feel like I was at work, I didn't have to worry about my social circle back at school crumbling at the foundation, I didn't have to worry about homework, bills, classes--you get the idea.

        This was a song everyone was obsessed with and made me hear it in my sleep:

4) The Rule-Breakers. She lights up a cigarette as I'm telling her that she can't smoke in the van, and calmly tells me she's going to open a window, so it'll magically be fine to let everyone else freeze to death while she turns her lungs into a withered black organ hanging pitifully like a rotten grape left on the vine. The rule-breakers believe they are cool; above the law, and most definitely above a goofy underclassman in her pajamas driving a van full of people dressed to the nines. Flash forward a few hours: it's the middle of the night, and two girls are the first to show up to go back to school. They're giggling uncontrollably, and it looks like they became spontaneously pregnant in the 3 hours that they were out partying. They reveal their babies, which turns out to be two full unopened bottles of alcohol that they lifted from a local club. My eyes bugged out of my sockets; was I going to be seen as the accomplice with the getaway vehicle? Did they have videocameras and could they identify the girls? Were they so drunk that they didn't remember actually buying the bottles instead?

5) The Angry Ones. As we're moving, he stands in the center aisle between the driver and passenger seats, and beams empty shotglasses at point-blank range into girls' faces. Why? I have no goddamn clue. Were these glasses stolen as well? Probably. What could I do? Not much. On an unrelated note, I got to show my crazy side when one group of kids started being racist towards other people in the van and I informed them that if we couldn't all get along, I would drive off of the steep roadway and we could all learn peace and acceptance in death. (Yeah, lack of sleep is a scary thing, I don't advise it) Needless to say, they all thought I was batshit crazy and in desperate need of some kind of medication, but it worked! No more racist comments!

That's all for Part 1 of this rant, more to come in the near future. So tired.

Fantasy-Destroying Mom

Every once in a while, there are very lovely people that come to visit at work to make my day just peachy. I don't claim to know all the answers at twenty-two; in fact, I could claim soundly that I know less than an eighth of all the answers.

On a given day last summer, I was pretty proud of myself for transforming a bleak hallway on the way to the bathrooms into a colorful, child-friendly haven of marine bio-based educational posters and animal exhibits. I liked  to include my own geeky passions to make it more fun for the kids: including posters showing the difference between the fins of different fish, featuring Nemo, Ariel, Bruce, and the importance of spiders, of course featuring your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

My happy feeling was obliterated on a sunny day when I still wore a smile to work and didn't understand that some of my coworkers were forever stuck in asinine high school drama and would frequently force their idiocy upon others. But that's a whole other story in and of itself. On this day, I was delightedly pointing out the difference between Nemo's rounded caudal fin and Ariel's forked fin when a voice interrupted me.

The voice came from a young mother who looked like she spent more time at the gym than spending time with her daughter. She was constantly looking around to see who was noticing her, but for once, she was still, and speaking loud enough to her daughter to make me pause mid-sentence.

"I think she's a little confused," the mother said in an overly sing-song voice that sounds like something reserved for an actress at Disney world. "The fin would actually move up and down, not side to side. And actually, a real animal should've been used. Mermaids aren't real."

Telling a little kid that awesome things like mermaids aren't real is less of a crime than the Santa ordeal, but it's still ripping a part of childhood away from them. Plus, the posters were to get kids to pay attention via Disney characters. I honestly don't think the little girl is going to say ten years from now, "Gee, I totally remember that hand-made poster and that forked caudal fins do not represent fictional animated characters that have more cetacean-like movement."

So no, Mother-who-has-nothing-better-to-do-than-try-and-make-people-feel-bad-about-themselves (whew), I'm not confused. I got your daughter's attention, and she enjoyed learning. Even if it was slightly wrong. Who has the time to nit-pick over such specific things? Jeezum.

Besides, what's so wrong about mermaids? They're a staple of childhood (see video below), literature, and mythology! So here's to all you who still let your kids believe in mermaids, unicorns, faeries, and dragons until they're old enough to figure it out for themselves.

Voodoo!

In commemoration of the resident Milk Snake's skin shedding, I thought I would share a story about a recent group of teens/young adults that came in. Not seeing the connection? It's coming. You should play this song while reading the article:

They were a friendly bunch; very animated and full of questions. Quite honestly, they were the nicest people all day. The younger guys left, but there was one tall gentleman who stayed behind to chat it up with me. He joked about his weight and how he could stay buoyant effortlessly due to the fat content of his body, but I was so awkward about it. If I laugh, will he think I'm laughing with him or at him? Gahhhh the torture. So I did my best awkward laugh. It worked. We talked about a whole slew of other things: pythons, minerals, precious stones, swimming, piercings, gay marriage and how his religion is very accepting of all people, no matter what their sexual orientation.

...And then he glanced over at the snake tank and was excited to see the snake skin pinned under a rock on top of the tank. I didn't understand why he was so happy to see the massive papery flake of old snake skin flapping in the breeze, but he treated it almost reverently.
"This," he said, "Is why I want a snake. For the skin..."

Stupidly, I had an odd image of him collecting skin in a mason jar like some other OCDs of gathering every single toe/fingernail that has ever been clipped off in a perfect crescent moon shape. Sensing my confusion, he added.
"I practice Vodou. Haitian Vodou*."  (*Haitian is Vodou, Louisianan is Voodoo; still said the same way)

I stared at this six-foot-tall white male in goth-ish clothing and wondered what he had to do with enslaved and impoverished Haitians and Africans, or how one would even practice an Island religion in the middle of the United States. I asked him how popular Vodou was in the states or even globally (surprised that Vodou was actually centered around love and caring and looking down on greed. My bias had me thinking of dolls with pins stuck in them). I also asked what exactly he uses the snake skin for.

"The snake skin is to make curses. I'm not a traditional Vodou priest, they would actually look down on what I do." He said matter-of-factly with an unsettling smile. The warm, friendly, bubbly, kindhearted man who was teaching a young girl the importance of reading mere minutes ago was telling me he enjoyed and routinely cursed people.

At that moment, the room filled with a lot of people asking questions about our shark exhibit, so I excused myself to go help the visitors. Again, I could hear the young man stressing the importance of reading to the young girl. I turned around after educating the people to ask the man another question, only to find he wasn't there. He vanished; a six-foot-tall 250+lb man disappeared from a room without my notice. I dashed over to see if my snake's skins were still where they had been left last.

They were still there, fluttering in the crossbreeze, looking so innocent and inanimate despite their dark purpose.

Let's Take a Stroll in the Woods...

The job I do now is great; it's fun and rewarding most of the time.
But before I was transferred, I got a never-ending line of people who would tell me that the program was (1) run much better ten years ago, and that (2) we used to have such cool things, and (3) we used to do such cool things.

(1) The Program Was Better Ten Years Ago

People of an older generation think everything was better ten years ago. Even now, in my early twenties, I think of things when I was younger as being far superior than what the young'ns today have. Also, the program had more funding ten years ago when we actually charged money for visitors. Things change when it's free, that's for sure.

(2) Used to have "cool" things

By cool things, they mean large tanks, big flashy fish, laminated posters. All of these things require money. Which the state doesn't have. Over ten years, a fifty gallon tank WILL break, I don't care if it's made of glass or diamond. By the way, if a living, breathing, adorable seahorse that saves other fish in the tank from being sucked in the filter isn't "cool" enough for you, then you can go screw.

(3) Used to do "cool" things

By do cool things, they mean going for guided nature tours in the woods. I'm not an idiot. I can ask the parents all they want if I have permission to take their kids into the woods--alone-- because the parents refuse to go, and as soon as I disappear behind the first tree, they'll be on the phone with their lawyers about how I kidnapped their kids.

Also, every-freaking-time I leave my tanks alone, things, including wild animals, get stolen. Signs get ripped and defaced, weird crap gets put into tanks, some ass-hat decided to flip the tank vertical just "to see what happens". (Yes, this did happen)

The number one thing why I'm not going in the woods alone isn't because of some kid, it's for my own safety. Maybe that's selfish, but you'll see why I have a high sense of self-preservation.


It was a typical summer day, blue and breezy by the bay (yay alliteration!), when a man commented on my exhibit that of course, there weren't impressive enough specimen. I told him I was hoping to go to another town soon to do some collecting, to which he half-jokingly chided me for not going and collecting things here at the beach where I worked. After explaining that the other town had better nets and resources for me to use, he still didn't want to hear it, and thought I was half-assing my job. The real reason I didn't want to collect at this beach was because I wrote a paper on it in college about how horribly polluted it was. I remembered the day I went in up to my knee and couldn't stop itching for the rest of the day. No freaking way I was going in that water.

I decided to go freshwater fishing later, and to my chagrin, the same man from before decided to follow along with his daughter and her friend. The two girls ran around up ahead while I made small-talk with the guy. He kept talking about how much he rode his bike everywhere to stay in shape (he walked with a limp, was slightly overweight, and was breathing deeply just from walking), and that his wife wasn't making the same effort. I tol' her I don't date no big woman! was his righteous cry. Friendly most of the time, but tried to cover up his breaking wind as he was walking with sudden grunts.

Fishing went okay, and I decided to head back; which he continued to go on about how his love life was failing because he wasn't attracted to her anymore and he could get a younger thing, and talking about how pretty he thought I was. I walked faster, but trying to be polite as he fell behind due to his limp, caused me to stay pretty much in tandem with him. He had me guess how old he was, and was delighted that I guessed lower than he was. (he was in his mid fifties)

Ooooh!!!! She like meeee! Imma touch her!

Back at my exhibit, he stopped past me to wish me a good day, and tenderly squeezed my shoulder. I froze, but didn't think to freak out even though my insides were somersaulting. He stayed away after that, but I was not happy with how the afternoon went.

How do you be genuinely nice to someone without leading them on/asking for the entirely of their life story that is none of my business?

Creepy touchy guys = never in the woods alone. And that's final.

You'll be Beautiful in 10 Years...Just not now

The world of fast-food is a pain in the ass. It's not really fast, it's not really food, and the brief interchanges with people are often shallow and superficial.

The particular coffee place I had worked at in the past was all about quick efficient service and good products. The employees there were all about the almighty dollar via tips, and at a job that pays minimum wage, I don't blame them. Girls would come into work to make coffee like they were going out on the town. Makeup painstakingly applied to highlight gorgeous eyes, a hint of lip gloss to lusciously frost the cake that was her lips framing her mega-watt white smile, nails flawlessly painted in whimsical patterns over acrylic rectangles on her real nails, top buttons of the shirt carefully cut to reveal a hint of the goods as she leans out the drive-thru window. It was an artform. These girls had to pretend to be happy at work and that everyone that came through was God's gift to the world so everyone else could bring home enough money to pay the bills.

On this particular day, the Pretty People weren't working, so it was my chance to shine at drive-thru cashiering! I was...awkward, even moreso than now, but back then I was a late teen, slightly heavy and constantly fighting a body image issue. I wore men's shorts to work, a baggy shirt, and a low ponytail. A deterrent for any male in the area, but not some women, if you catch my drift. Anyhoo, I was convinced I had a huge body and a passable face. A reverse-butterface if you will. Do you remember the term butterface from middle school?

Tool: Ch'yeah Brahh, d'you see Julie* at the beach yesterday? Sooo hot.
Douche:  You're kiddin, right? You could enter her in a dog show with a mug like that. Whaddaya blind?
Tool: N-no she's like a 6.5
Douche: Dudedudedudedudedude. Dude. She's a total butterface.
Tool: bwahh?
Douche: Everything's hot, but. her. face.
Tool: ....
[ten minutes elapse]
Tool: AHAHAH I GOT IT! You're funny brahh!

*Sorry Julies of the world!!!!!

So yeah, a reverse butterface, which doesn't have a catchy name, would be a pretty face and a mehhhhhhh to blargh body. Which is EXCELLENT for a drive-thru window, because they can't see past your boobs anyways!

So, this day was to be my day! I would get the dollar bills! I would get the quarters! I would get the knowing stares of oh hayy gurl hayyy. The day was going just fine, not raking in the big bucks like usual, but it was passable  enough that I wasn't wrenched away from the window. Finally at one point in the shift I have a very  kind man at the window. I smile and make the usual pre-prescribed coffee house lines, and he keeps staring. And smiling! In my head, I feel like I've sealed the deal; dollar bill, here I come!

He gets ready to leave and my heart falls, being nice for nothing! How dare he waste my forced niceness without paying me that completely optional tip! He hesitates and says, You're going to make a beautiful mother some day.
He drives away.
.   .  .
no tip
.  .  .

                                            You're going to be a beautiful mother some day.

What?! W-well yeah, that'd be nice, but
 NO

My head was reeling; does that mean I'm not pretty now, but will only be pretty when there is a parasitic life form inside of my womb forcing my skin to split and my weight to increase even more?!?

Yeah. I watched Alien. I KNOW what parasitic life forms can do.

 What does that mean? I'll look great driving a minivan full of kids on their way to soccer practice? I'll look supersexy with high-waisted jeans?

Delicious

 WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
It's really not something a teenager on the cusp of going to college wanted to hear. End of rant. See you next time.

"It means when you have a baby you're gonna look like me, Dearie."

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Photo From Fashion Blog <--Mom Jeans SNL photo source!

Umm...Naturalist?

If you include all the different franchises and other jobs I've had, I've had about 11 different jobs since 2005. It's not that I'm a bad worker, I've never been fired, but these days, working two jobs at a time is pretty much the norm.

One of the jobs I've had, and the most recent, is being a State Park Naturalist. The job is fun and rewarding, and it requires basic knowledge of biology, marine science, marine biology, fisheries, or an enthusiasm for fisheries and marine life is sufficient. While the term, "naturalist" should apply to many parts of the park and different life forms, there has been a recent focus on marine life. Why is this important? It's coming, don't worry.

A normal day at the park usually involves answering the same couple of questions again and again, but it's offset by gorgeous ocean views, cute animals, and kind people. On this particular day, an older couple beckoned me outside to try to identify a plant. Immediately worried (I can barely identify grass), I assured the couple I would try my best. They pointed out a lethal-looking rose plant that grows frequently near the sea. Before it blooms, large, ugly bulbs form before the bright fuchsia flowers.

I told the couple that I was sorry, but I wasn't sure of the exact name of the rose bush. To my surprise, the man gripped my shirt and forcibly turned me so he could read and show me the Department of Environmental badge on my shirt. With a sneer he said as he gestured to the patch, Uhh....Naturalist?

Uhh...douchebag?

At the time, I was too shocked to do anything but smile and laugh nervously. But once I got home, I realized how upset I was. It's one thing to be upset that I couldn't identify a plant even though I could identify a room full of fish, but it's another thing to lay hands on another person. There's plenty of other ways to let me know of my inferiority with botany.

It's never okay for someone to put their hands on you if they're a stranger, meaning you ill will, or simply unwanted contact. How much would be too much to let that man know he can't do things like that? Am I just over-reacting? Have you ever had a stranger grab you / invade your personal space? What's the right protocol?

Uhh...Naturalist?

Uhh...touch me again and see what happens.

#1 Sir, Please Step Away From the Counter

Hello there, and welcome to my very first blog. I have no profound words of wisdom, no political ramblings, no clever "witicisms" on today's society. I have anger and honest confusion.


I've worked in customer service for over seven years at a certain place that America runs on. Don't click away just yet! It's not a career I want (did not get 40k in the hole for student loans and two degrees to be working there forever), but it has been a very flexible and convenient job. It's also a great place to meet loony bins, perverts, snobs, socialites, wannabees, know-it-alls, jerk-offs, and occasionally nice people. Every job involves dealing with some other human being, so there are bound to be problems. No one can avoid it. No one is safe.


 To start my blog, I'll relay a bedtime story for those of you on the east coast of the 'ol US of A:

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who worked just like many other people to make ends meet. One night at work, a man came to the counter to order his nighttime fare of an artery congealing donut and a coffee that had past its prime by an hour. The girl noticed he had a bar pierced horizontally through his forearm, and being curious and friendly asked, "Did it hurt to get that done? It's in an unusual spot!"


The man smiled a slightly off-kilter smile and the girl got a twinge of unease. He spoke up, animated and sociable about how he runs a piercing business and does all sorts of piercings. Unbidden, he even mentions he's pierced his....as the donut shop might refer to it, his cruller. Twice. 


The stupid girl thought she could get a good tip if she kept chatting with the man, who was fiddling with his arm-bolt piercing, and asked if his wife liked the pierced cruller. After more information about the topic than she ever wanted to know, he finally leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially:


My favorite piercing to do, is nipples. I really love holding a woman's chest and inflicting pain at the same time. Would you like yours done?

What my face looked like after his question

Turning several shades of red non-existent on Earth and laughing nervously while backing away, the girl hides in the back room until the sadistic man leaves. She learned never to deviate from the prescribed Hi, how can I help you? again.


The End.

Now, as much as that ordeal scarred me, I'm sure there are many many of you out there with more terrifying or enraging stories. How we make it through relatively okay, I'll never know. How do you make it through tough days with trying people?


What got me through that day was the joy of knowing I was not that man's wife.