horribly ordinary
I've got the kind of tired that sits like a cotton wall behind my eyes, a great big soft buffer between me and the world. And yet I still can't sleep. Not that it's bad, just that there's a gloam of immediacy on the horizon, sort of side-ways winking at me.
I tried to fight it off early this morning, sans sleep and post heavy work day and birthday celebration, by accompanying Crow to the vet with Iza meowing plaintively from her carrier. We drugged her this time as the day prior she wasn't having the vet's fingers near the batface or monkeylipz. Of course, all this accomplished is one comedically incensed floppy-octopus of a feline, with limbs all askew and a heavy butt frothed by a lot of sound and fury, signifying biting. Sleep deprivation makes things like this easier and yet more operose in practice. She's home and nestled now in my armpit, which is appalling with its mixture of urine-stained cat and boy-sweat. Oh nothing compared to the trauma she endured.
The Brazilians are back in town, canvassing the local businesses for work. It breaks my heart. They shuttle in every year on a work-exchange program from their colleges. The brave ones are those that apply in my store, having foregone the comfort of prearranged employment and housing provided by their schools to rather strike out on their own. What floors me annually is just how attractive these people are - super-model quality, even the males. Their resumes are always impressive, and even if their English is a little forced they've at least been taught to speak it properly, which is more than I can say for people born and raised in this country. Those that are fortunate to hire them for the extent of their brief work visas report of their industriousness, bright nature and confidence. But this year they approach somberly, unable to find jobs, desperately clutching classifieds. They're almost nice to a fault, yet helpless in a foreign country. I fear their existence as a foreshadow and turn them away with a sick stomach, applications left behind answering my query as to why they applied at my store: that I'm nice to them.
Was even approached by a young, attractive South African girl in tears who's under the same circumstances, visiting this country on a working holiday and unable to fulfill the first part of that phrase, giving me her phone number and praying for a ski accident upon one of my employees so that I might hire her. I don't know if that was smudged eyeliner or desperation around her eyes.
Another soap store opened up practically right next to us. Lots of people have been giving us business under the caveat the other store is bunk. This makes me feel good, as it's a franchise with more money than I could ever hope for and all the possibility to make my bones turn to ice, despite knowing our products are more affordable and superior.
So business has picked up a little. Not enough to completely dispel the sobriety of my situation, but welcomed nonetheless. Locals and repeat visitors alike are attempting to inculcate me against closing, but while this is heartening, it's also a stark addition to what I fear is inevitable.
I just remembered: two unthinkably cute ski bunnies came into my store yesterday, luxuriously dolled-up and impossibly REEKING of Doritos. Is there some popular sort of Dorito-perfume I don't know about? Did one of them have a mutagenic glandular problem? Or did I fail to notice their orange-stained fingertips and high sodium halitosis? The mind buckles.
I tried to fight it off early this morning, sans sleep and post heavy work day and birthday celebration, by accompanying Crow to the vet with Iza meowing plaintively from her carrier. We drugged her this time as the day prior she wasn't having the vet's fingers near the batface or monkeylipz. Of course, all this accomplished is one comedically incensed floppy-octopus of a feline, with limbs all askew and a heavy butt frothed by a lot of sound and fury, signifying biting. Sleep deprivation makes things like this easier and yet more operose in practice. She's home and nestled now in my armpit, which is appalling with its mixture of urine-stained cat and boy-sweat. Oh nothing compared to the trauma she endured.
The Brazilians are back in town, canvassing the local businesses for work. It breaks my heart. They shuttle in every year on a work-exchange program from their colleges. The brave ones are those that apply in my store, having foregone the comfort of prearranged employment and housing provided by their schools to rather strike out on their own. What floors me annually is just how attractive these people are - super-model quality, even the males. Their resumes are always impressive, and even if their English is a little forced they've at least been taught to speak it properly, which is more than I can say for people born and raised in this country. Those that are fortunate to hire them for the extent of their brief work visas report of their industriousness, bright nature and confidence. But this year they approach somberly, unable to find jobs, desperately clutching classifieds. They're almost nice to a fault, yet helpless in a foreign country. I fear their existence as a foreshadow and turn them away with a sick stomach, applications left behind answering my query as to why they applied at my store: that I'm nice to them.
Was even approached by a young, attractive South African girl in tears who's under the same circumstances, visiting this country on a working holiday and unable to fulfill the first part of that phrase, giving me her phone number and praying for a ski accident upon one of my employees so that I might hire her. I don't know if that was smudged eyeliner or desperation around her eyes.
Another soap store opened up practically right next to us. Lots of people have been giving us business under the caveat the other store is bunk. This makes me feel good, as it's a franchise with more money than I could ever hope for and all the possibility to make my bones turn to ice, despite knowing our products are more affordable and superior.
So business has picked up a little. Not enough to completely dispel the sobriety of my situation, but welcomed nonetheless. Locals and repeat visitors alike are attempting to inculcate me against closing, but while this is heartening, it's also a stark addition to what I fear is inevitable.
I just remembered: two unthinkably cute ski bunnies came into my store yesterday, luxuriously dolled-up and impossibly REEKING of Doritos. Is there some popular sort of Dorito-perfume I don't know about? Did one of them have a mutagenic glandular problem? Or did I fail to notice their orange-stained fingertips and high sodium halitosis? The mind buckles.