A Friday Monday (Monday Friday?)

I've been a Monday-Friday worker for far too long, just as I've never outgrown my upbringing along a North-South highway .... Bay Area freeways confused me for years, messing with my sense of direction with all their bends and curls and cohabitation along the same stretch of road. Was I on 80 or 880? both at once? Who knew?

One of those qualities I love about my adopted home is its adherence to the poles. I'm back on a north-south line, as I should be.

And now, there's these Monday Fridays, by which I mean today, Friday, is my Monday. I couldn't figure out why it was all nuts-to-butts traffic this afternoon as I was trying to make my second run. Then, illumination! Friday. ah. I'm going to learn to hate my Mondays. But oh, sweet Tuesday and Wednesday. Lighter roads. *bliss sigh*

But the 'off' feeling of beginning a week as most others end theirs. This feeling of being 'other.' There are so many ways in which compartments are created ~hierarchies. Weekends. Carpet vs concrete. Suits vs day-glow vests. Cosmetics vs axle grease. Didja know the office staffers have 3 times the holidays of the infrastructure workers?

3 times. That's fine. I have no beef with it. We're trained to think carpet, suits and more holidays equate with power, with satisfaction, with choice. But I've taken paths that have given me more ability to decide my life than most people.

Hell, I feel like the most powerful person in the company. I can say, "I Choose This." Plus, I can turn off that truck at night, clock out and head home to a hot shower and my sweet babboo. If I'm passing couples on their way to a Friday night on the town as I think about what I want in my lunch bag tomorrow, it's a more than fair sacrifice. Maybe Friday is one habit I can outgrow.

Black-n-Blue

"Sweety Babboo..."
"What?"
"Take a picture of my bruises."
"No."
"C'mon. Take a picture."
"Forget it."
"Why not?"
"They'll think I beat you."
"Mary Sissy Pants. Take a picture."
"Not gonna happen."
"I've counted 32 today. Look."
"NO." 

He's winning the battles, but I'll win the war. I have some Epic bruises. It would be a shame not to document them.

a buck at a buck fifty, part two

Okay, so pug Frank didn't have anything to do with the cost of going to work vs the wage brought in. I was punch drunk on all that overtime.

He's doing well, by the way, and soaking up the attention. Our best guess is he had an adverse reaction to the 1/2 aspirin dosage our vet recommended as we treated him for Another eye ulcer.

What I meant was, I'll make less slightly less money earning my wage than I did on unemployment. ... Yes, I paid into unemployment all those years, but still, work is ...well, it's dignity. Of course, it's dignity at the price of a buck fifty to my dollar. ... but what the heck.

(Never can say 'dignity' without thinking of 'Singing in the Rain.'  Have you seen it lately? Do.)

making a buck, at the cost of a buck fifty

two eleven hour days -- yayyy! overtime. boooo! tired bettybulldog.

home and our pug is vomiting profusely. 8:30pm, and we're off to the emergency vet.

(Wo)manhandling

Sooo sleepy after five days on, but not as wiped out as I was week one. Sleep. The reward of good physical and mental labor, although I never slept nearly so well when I was in the purely mental labor business.

I counted 30 distinct bruises, from ankle to hip and wrist to elbow. Begged Sweet Babboo to take a picture but he refused. "They'll think I beat you." Sissy.

Days of climbing into and out of trucks; pushing several hundred pounds of gaylords (those roughly 4x4x4 boxes) around with pallet jacks; rolling hundreds of pounds of wheeled bins around; pushing metal trash bins (5x5x2 or so) up ramps and into trucks, then out of trucks; (wo)manhandling lift gates and ramps and truck hoods and every sort of 'donation.'

Sundays are a particularly goofy day for donations. The dump is closed, so lots of charming folks drop their dump runs right below the signs that say "It's against the law to leave your shtuff here when this donation site is unattended." ... What do they leave? The shtuff no salvage/thrift shop can use, but have to pay bucks to dispose of, I think. (Maybe the trash folks cut us a break? I dunno.) Anyway, I've dragged torn up and broken couches, desks, etc off the trucks. A refrigerator. A stove.

Side note: it's amazingly easy to (wo)manhandle big furniture when you're not trying to protect/preserve it. and fun!

and I've had the easy part of the trash runs -- just pulling misc stuff off the trucks, then consolidating it onto a 'trash run' truck. The other drivers have had to go to the sites and load up. Plus go to the dump to drop all these 'donations' off.

So, I deviated. Really, in the big scheme of the organized chaos that is the thrift business, the dumpers are small in number. Many donations are lovely and given with thought towards the good that they can bring to the organization and the home they can find with new owners. I took in a set of vintage punch glasses that had belonged to a woman's aunt. She couldn't use them, but you could feel her fondness for her family and her wish for good things to come of her gift to us. I like that.

And still, I deviate. I Must be tired. Punch drunk, maybe? ... My point, if I had one, was to say, "I'm all bruised up and dern'd proud of it."

Chick Driver

I have to say, being a girl driver is a hoot. I mean, if a 40 year old man introduced himself to a coworker as 'the new driver,' would she reply, 'Good for you!' ... love it. Love that women are asking me about it. Love that the men I'm working with are taking it (almost) entirely in stride. I suspect, but maybe I'm wrong, that the guys are helping me out more than they would another guy.

And I really doubt a hetero-lookin' youngster would say "You have pretty eyes" to a male driver. ... but I do have pretty eyes. Nice dimples too. a few gray hairs I'm proud of. Ears of a 40 year old. Nose of a 3 year old. and a bad ass swagger in my boots, cargo pants, t-shirt and day-glow yellow safety vest. The boots make the swagger. Not the vest.

Speaking of being a girl driver, the looks from the street are most excellent, too. Pan in. Pause. Double Take.

I get the feeling I'm the only one who feels I need to prove myself. Everyone else has been welcoming and just plain nice (or indifferent. Both are good.) Me, I feel like I need to prove I can lift it, haul it, cart it. Tough Grrrl.

~BettyBulldog

A Girl Moment

Three days of hard physical work & gained two pounds...*sigh*