My Face Hurts.
My face hurts, and I'm really, really tired. If it wasn't for the random things Alex and Bryan do, I'd be climbing a tower to shoot student nurses right about now.
My family situation is weird. My future sister-in-law is hispanic, and Mom keeps having to figure out proper etiquette with them by consulting her Spanish friends at work. How were we supposed to know you have to give them two days advance notice to prepare for dinner? Good ol' WASPs defrost a meal in ten minutes flat, but not Larissa's family. Fuck. We're having Thanksgiving at their house, and we have no idea what they're gonna cook. Also, Mom absolutely despises beans of any kind, so it's hilarious watching her deal with arroz con habichuela (NO, NOT FREEJOLES, THESE ARE PUERTO RICANS) in a desperately diplomatic manner.
Also, Honey is moving out with the sibs to Vegas, which is great, because I was tired of having to wipe vomit from the rim of the toilet seat before peeing. She still refuses to speak to me and Cat, but who cares? It's like trying to punish me with a foot massage.
Dad is back, too. His older brother is dying from lung cancer, so he came down to say "Peace out" and such. We finally found out exactly what Dad's vague "Cancerous stomach cells" shtick was. Turns out he had surgery to remove part of his stomach. Of course, he still has Barrett's syndrome, a chest hernia, and advanced Crohn's disease. I haven't talked to him, and I don't feel the need too. What has been pissing me off, however, is that a few of the more vulnerable siblings are being pumped full of false hope. They think he wants to make amends because he's suddenly "sober, thoughtful and calm". They perceive it as him being a "changed man." What idiots. He's not a changed man, he's a dying man. He's taking advantage of the void he left in their lives to pave the way to heaven rather than hell, or some other death preparation shit. He's using them because he's afraid of hell. Nice way to hand over the reigns of accountability to Yahweh, Pops. I'm sure he won't notice the years of abuse followed by years of crippling neglect with those three months of polite, tidy goodbyes. You fuckhole. Just die already. Mom has told me like eight times "He's in the final stages," and the prospect of his clinging to life for a few more months is yawn-worthy at this point.
Oh yeah! Susie, Steve and the babies are gonna come stay in the empty apartment now that Honey is leaving. YAY!
Anycrap, work isn't bad or anything. It just isn't as interesting or exciting as it used to be. I'm thinking of transfering to a dine-in restaurant next year, or maybe dropping down to part time and focusing on school. I don't really want to leave. I enjoy the nature of the business; I have a real affinity for it. But moving up takes time, and I think I'm more interested in training and market strategy versus operations at this point. Problem is, those positions are hard to come by, and it takes years to get there. The youngest RTL is twenty-eight, and he's been with the company ten years. Holy fuck!
Man, I miss when I was a new manager. This one emo cockholster said she could see ghosts, and I laughed hysterically at her until I had to close up by myself at night. She said one of the vengeful ghosts (Imagine casper with a pathological thirst for human blood) tended to stay in the walk-in cooler, so counting inventory I was like "FUCK FUCK WHAT WAS THAT? OMFG I'M GONNA DIE AT THE HANDS OF SOME TRANSLUCENT MOTHERFUCKER!" It doesn't help when I watch "Ju-on" (Japanese version of "The Grudge") twice before going to work, knowing I'll spend two hours alone in the wee morning hours of an eerily silent restaurant. Oh, and that was when I was still reading the "Zombie Survival handbook" Robs gave me, so my paranoia was off the meter.
I was gonna write some other stuff, but I have to go do other important things now, like eat nachos, play Sims and vegetate on the couch. God, I'm awesome.
My family situation is weird. My future sister-in-law is hispanic, and Mom keeps having to figure out proper etiquette with them by consulting her Spanish friends at work. How were we supposed to know you have to give them two days advance notice to prepare for dinner? Good ol' WASPs defrost a meal in ten minutes flat, but not Larissa's family. Fuck. We're having Thanksgiving at their house, and we have no idea what they're gonna cook. Also, Mom absolutely despises beans of any kind, so it's hilarious watching her deal with arroz con habichuela (NO, NOT FREEJOLES, THESE ARE PUERTO RICANS) in a desperately diplomatic manner.
Also, Honey is moving out with the sibs to Vegas, which is great, because I was tired of having to wipe vomit from the rim of the toilet seat before peeing. She still refuses to speak to me and Cat, but who cares? It's like trying to punish me with a foot massage.
Dad is back, too. His older brother is dying from lung cancer, so he came down to say "Peace out" and such. We finally found out exactly what Dad's vague "Cancerous stomach cells" shtick was. Turns out he had surgery to remove part of his stomach. Of course, he still has Barrett's syndrome, a chest hernia, and advanced Crohn's disease. I haven't talked to him, and I don't feel the need too. What has been pissing me off, however, is that a few of the more vulnerable siblings are being pumped full of false hope. They think he wants to make amends because he's suddenly "sober, thoughtful and calm". They perceive it as him being a "changed man." What idiots. He's not a changed man, he's a dying man. He's taking advantage of the void he left in their lives to pave the way to heaven rather than hell, or some other death preparation shit. He's using them because he's afraid of hell. Nice way to hand over the reigns of accountability to Yahweh, Pops. I'm sure he won't notice the years of abuse followed by years of crippling neglect with those three months of polite, tidy goodbyes. You fuckhole. Just die already. Mom has told me like eight times "He's in the final stages," and the prospect of his clinging to life for a few more months is yawn-worthy at this point.
Oh yeah! Susie, Steve and the babies are gonna come stay in the empty apartment now that Honey is leaving. YAY!
Anycrap, work isn't bad or anything. It just isn't as interesting or exciting as it used to be. I'm thinking of transfering to a dine-in restaurant next year, or maybe dropping down to part time and focusing on school. I don't really want to leave. I enjoy the nature of the business; I have a real affinity for it. But moving up takes time, and I think I'm more interested in training and market strategy versus operations at this point. Problem is, those positions are hard to come by, and it takes years to get there. The youngest RTL is twenty-eight, and he's been with the company ten years. Holy fuck!
Man, I miss when I was a new manager. This one emo cockholster said she could see ghosts, and I laughed hysterically at her until I had to close up by myself at night. She said one of the vengeful ghosts (Imagine casper with a pathological thirst for human blood) tended to stay in the walk-in cooler, so counting inventory I was like "FUCK FUCK WHAT WAS THAT? OMFG I'M GONNA DIE AT THE HANDS OF SOME TRANSLUCENT MOTHERFUCKER!" It doesn't help when I watch "Ju-on" (Japanese version of "The Grudge") twice before going to work, knowing I'll spend two hours alone in the wee morning hours of an eerily silent restaurant. Oh, and that was when I was still reading the "Zombie Survival handbook" Robs gave me, so my paranoia was off the meter.
I was gonna write some other stuff, but I have to go do other important things now, like eat nachos, play Sims and vegetate on the couch. God, I'm awesome.