These are all thoughts that occurred to me today on my way to work, once I got there and as I left.
Y'all know how I have my sayin's that I use all the time -- the "I'm sayin'!," the "mmm hmm," the "I know, right?s." Well, today's recurring theme was "should not." The featured sayin' was: "That just should not be."
Alarm went off.
Too damn early.
"That just should not be."
Contacts wanted to play like contortionists on my eyeball.
That ain't right; it just should not be.
Get in the car. See gas hand sigh and ... that was it. It sighed. It went up and then it came back down.
Busted -- you know that "that just should not be."
Get to work. Ain't even there 15 minutes before they're asking me to stay longer because someone else called out; then they're asking me if I'd like to work on this day that they see I'm off because, well, there's a shift open and "You know you could use the extra money."
This just simply should not ever be. Shouldn't they know better?
(Don't tell me what I need because then I'm gonna have to double up and tell you what I really need, and tops on that list is the need for you to get outta my face. Second is, "Yes I do need the extra money, although you could just give me a damn raise and that'd eliminate the need for all this face time.")
"Hell to the nth naw," you think, but instead you politely decline with a very tight smile and just say, "No. I don't think so."
I got a schedule. You created it. "Whatcha see is whatcha get" is what you say when you hear me gripin' about the ridiculousness of closing two days in a row and then turning around and opening on the third day.
At work. Customers. Sometimes they're so dumb that you look them square in the face and think:
You look sensible. I don't see any drooling, no signsof a lobotomy. How are you so incredibly stupid? This just should not be.
You just stood in line and watched, like, 3 people bag their own stuff -- not to even mention the fact that you totally just hauled all that stuff off the shelves yourself in the SELF SERVE area -- and then it's your turn and you're just going to stand there yelling at the back of my head about how I can't possibly be serving another customer when you still need help. Another customer even tells you, "Oh, you bag yourself here! It's the way things are done -- saves you money."
No, you still want to protest. So you do so, and worse, you fail to notice that you're still talking to the back of my head.
Another customer thinks that my saying, "May I have your zip code?" is some strange form of requesting exactly what kind of credit card you're going to be paying with. No fool. ZIP CODE.
Does that sound like MasterCard, Visa, Discover or American Express to you? It doesn't even sound like debit. Don't argue with me. That does not even sound like debit. Don't be silly. This is stupid.
Stop playin'.
A manager comes by and begs me to help the folks out in food service. I laugh as though they have got to be kidding -- I don't know jack about food services. There is a clear reason why Danita never applied at any restaurant. I immediately have a vision of myself making one hell of a swirling mess at the frozen yogurt machine.
But I go. Why? Because I am a team player. This is what I'm going to write down in my self-evaluation. Here's one example that I can actually have to show for it.
What should never be: hot dog weenies and cinnamon buns, I don't think, should be prepared in the same area where their aromas are likely to mix and linger.
Another thing that should never be: burlap or whatever kind of fabric they think those uniforms we have to wear are made out of -- I personally think it's recycled sofas. But yeah, that is no kinda fabric to have on when you're WORKING IN THE SAME ROOM AS A BLOODY OVEN!
Geezus.
What also should never be: me being responsible for prepping both of these things.
Luckily I'm a clean freak when it comes to the kitchen area. My mama raised me like she had some sense. However, ain't nobody bothered to tell me where the gloves were, that there even were gloves, no one offered an apron, no one mentions the process of letting the cinnamon buns rise in a controlled setting before putting them into a freezer and then moving them on to the oven ... nothing.
That should not be. Based on that. Guess who won't be havin' not nan one of their cinnamon buns.
(Not that I was going to anyways, because those things always smell better than they could ever taste, but still.)
Clockin' out. Yabba dabba doin' it in my head. Turn around, the "watchman" manager -- he who always seems to be just watching but never actually doing. You know I'm just not sure what he actually does besides managing to watch -- is all up in my face: "Your shift is over?"
"Mmm hmm. Shoal is."
"But it's only 3:30. Shouldn't you be here until at least 5:30?"
Ha, ha, busta.
"No, I should not," I say and walk away smiling to myself as I've therein decided the theme of this post.
"Well, I'm gonna have to talk to your managers about this because you should be working full days."
Whatever jokah. Holla.
Driving home. Thanking the Lord. Approach the acceleration lane and shift into third gear. I love me some acceleration lane, and I'm gonna say this right here. I wanted to put it in all caps, but I won't. Instead, I'm just gonna say:
If your monkey tail cannot/does not know how to feckin' merge ... guess what.
You flat out, absolutely, for God's sake SHOULD NOT be drivin' in a metro-bloody-politan area. Cancel it. How the hell you gonna have a car? You shouldn't even have gotten a license. If you live in a city, I think the driving test should require you actually takin' your tail to the highways. Or, you need to make like Nikki and learn all the roads imaginable that will keep you from ever having to encounter this. I understand your fear. I'm not saying you're anything less than what you are because you can't merge. But please acknowledge this. You need to know how to merge, people. I mean, really.
I am not going to go so far as to call this a theory, it's more like a wild guess, but I'm guessin' that folks who can't merge can't use their mirrors - side or rear-view. Their peripheral vision is also questionable -- as in non-existent -- and there is absolutely no forethought beyond their car interior. The acceleration lane in most cases is long enough to allow you to accelerate, yes, but while you're accelerating, in order to accelerate, wouldn't it be a good idea to know what you're speeding into? I'm thinking you should take this time to peruse the environs. Is the lane where the acceleration lane empties empty? As you're accelerating along, do you happen to see any vehicles in this lane?
No. Not this crackhead I was driving behind today. This fool accelerated like he was on the Autobahn, gets all the way to the end and slams on brakes. The kicker is there wudn't shit on the roadways. It was WIDE open. And I wasn't even on his tail either because he had way more horsepower in his Audi than my ride, so it wasn't like he was mad about someone ridin' his tail. This fool came to a complete stop.
This means I have to stop. I almost got hit because the man behind me was thinking he was in the acceleration lane. I mean, honestly, what do you think you should do there -- accelerate? Oh no. That's a misnomer.
He was all up on his horn, the man behind me. Arm flailing out the window. I was all on my horn, no gesturing, just horn. I was close enough to his bumper to reach out and smack the shit out of him, but I felt that the horn was fine.
This jokah eases out, neck craned east tryin' to see the lanes that unbeknownst to him, he has completely avoided by veering totally right.
Unbelievable, I think, as I slam into FIRST gear, which is ungodly. Even my engine was like, "What in God's name is you doin'? I don't do zero to anything in any sort of seconds. Give me a minute. I'm too old for this shit."
It just shouldn't be. You shouldn't be driving.
I'm sorry, but I had to rant about that mess. The last thing that shouldn't be also deals with driving. I've even said this before. I think you all agree with this, too.
If there's no oncoming traffic, you do not need to stop to turn. You just don't. It's not a turn if you're stopped. I wish I had a nickel for everytime I have had to pump my brakes because some person stops to turn ... and you know they rarely use their signal light. They take the time to STOP but it's too much effort to flick a forefinger for a friggin' signal.
People.
On days like this it makes me wish I really were an island. Deserted, desolate even, in a place, a state of being in which annoyances have no place, where I don't have to accommodate everyone else's nutty behavior and lack of focus.
On days like this, I have to pop the top on an ice cold beer ... and drink ... alone.
This, too, should not be.