Archives: May 2006
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I know I've been sort of absent here lately. This is a little unusual for me, as for some reason I like writing about dumb shit in a little box from time to time.
I'll be back soon. There's been some craziness around here -- both good and bad -- but I'll say the good has been outweighing the bad at least 2 to 1. In other words, I'm not complaining. But I'm not explaining, either.
I know that's cruel.
In the meatime, go see "Volver" -- you won't be sorry.
Every day at work, my boss or his wife (who both work in the store) come up to me and say, "Lee Ann -- did you see that guy that was just in here? The one who [fill in the blank with a physical description to the tune of "has brown hair" or similar]?"
"Yeah," I usually answer, although sometimes I really don't know who they're talking about.
"He'll really be annoying if you let him. Next time he comes in, don't help him. If he wants to get something off the shelves, tell him to get it himself."
Their attitude towards their customers is hilarious to me. It's also a little perplexing. How they've managed to be so successful while alienating at least five customers per day is something I will never understand. But I don't get these customers, either. They keep coming back for more. It's masochistic.
It's as if there were a constant war being raged by my boss against what translates literally into English as "the shitters." There are tons of shitters in our shop -- or so my bosses claim -- and they need to be seeked out and obliterated. Maybe in another couple months I'll have the guts to tell them that they don't know shitters, real true shitters. Why? Because they've never worked a truck stop restaurant when they were sixteen. But that's a different story, I suppose.
I think it's my mom who says that everyone should have to work in retail at some point in their life. After 25 years in the business, I can understand why my boss just can't handle shitters any more. But really? They don't bug me so much. Half the people he complains about are perfectly reasonable towards me, even nice. Maybe I just have a higher tolerance for shitters -- four years of waitressing will do that to a person.
At any rate, I think it's like sport to them. They relish the rudeness when dictated by their seemingly arbitrary logic. I can't bring myself to be straight out mean to people, and I don't think it's ever going to happen. I get the feeling they're warning me about the shitters to draw out my mean side. They'll probably have to wait a long while for that. I'm American. We SMILE and stuff.
Today, for example, a customer asked me to find the catalogue of Le Douanier Rousseau. I know Rousseau, sure. I just didn't know that he was also referred to as Le Douanier. So I started looking at the books under "D" and couldn't find it. I asked the guy how to spell it, and he said, "Like a douanier." I replied, "And how is that spelled?" He spelled it for me, a little aghast at my atrocious spelling skills, and I sharply pointed out that I am American and the "ou" vowel is hard for me to pick up. And it's a word that, until today, I haven't ever used.
He was so embarassed and apologetic that I felt like crap for trying to explain my poor spelling to him. He apologized profusely and I eventually found his book, and we both had some guffawing and awkwardness to get over before we could conclude the transaction.
I'm sure my boss would think he was a shitter, but I felt like he was a normal guy that just didn't understand why I couldn't spell a common word.
All my other coworkers are like gossiping girls when it comes to discussing customers. They must think I'm a weirdo, because I never really have the correct response to their warnings. Most times, I say, "Ok, I'll try to look out for that guy next time..." and sometimes I even say, "Oh... he didn't really cause any problems." Such a statement is always followed by something like, "No, he's the supreme shitter. Steer clear." They don't even care if the person hears them say so. As a matter of fact, I think they'd take some sick sort of pleasure in it.
Highlight of my trip to Lisbon with my parents:
Walking down a wee little staircase in the Alfama, I turned around to warn them to be careful. "These steps are slippery," I noted, and promptly fell on my ass.
They were very considerate, and made fun of me for the rest of the trip.
*****
Now the parents have come and gone. They left yesterday morning on an uber-early flight, and I pretty much slept until ten and spent the first three hours of my day doing nothing but paperwork before going into work. To do... more paperwork!
The parents' departure is always bittersweet. In some ways, I was ready for them to leave; as awful as that may sound, it's not: I have work to do and exams to study for, and that's not so easy when mom and dad are offering to feed me M&M's and do crosswords instead. I had a lot of things that fall in the "responsibility" compartment of my brain that were pushed to the wayside (rather successfully, I might add) while they were here.
Also, it's a bit tricky to play hostess at this point. They know the Paris well enough to not want to visit the Eiffel Tower or the Musée d'Orsay. I'd honestly prefer to avoid them myself. Yet, they don't feel quite right about going to the movies or just sitting around a café for four hours, which are my favorite ways to relax around town. So there's a delicate balance to be found - somewhere - between being a succesful tourist while still doing things that don't bore them to tears.
Not always easy. It's easier in Portugal, of course, where you can rent a car and drive down the coast. Or you can wander the streets of Lisbon. Or you can fall down the stairs. That's entertainment, right there.
But when it comes to actually saying goodbye, I'd be lying if I didn't get a little teary eyed. I make fun of my mom for tearing up (jokingly, of course) but I do it myself sometimes, too. They're great people - funny and fun to be with. Besides some notable bumps in the road, we got along swimmingly as usual. They leave a sort of gaping hole in my life once they're gone, which it takes 24-48 hours getting used to.
I'm now on hour 26. The realization of just exactly how much work I had been neglecting hit home yesterday, and I had a mini panic-attack around noon. I haven't seen any of my friends for 10 days, and I'm having a hard time getting back in the social circuit. W eird how that happens.
In the meantime, I'm playing catch up for at least another three days.
"Just sit like that for awhile," the allergist tells me, motioning to keep my arms flat and not let the little driblets of possibly allergic liquid slip off.
This is easy for about two minutes. Then the allergic reaction sets in. And then the burning/itching feeling. And then, because allergies are what brought me into the office in the first place, my nose starts running. But I can't use a tissue, because my arms are outstretched in front of me, and I can't move them. So I sniffle, and sniffle again, and eventually everyone in the waiting room wants to shoot me in the face. This goes on for half an hour. Meanwhile, red splotches are developing up and down my arms, and I concentrate on bouncing my right foot to avoid the overwhelming desire to scratch my left arm.
The doctor calls in the young girl next to me, who has also been sitting with outstretched arms filled with allergic goop. She shuffles her into the room, looks over her arms, and says, "I'm just going to have a look at her arms quickly... " motioning towards me.
"Oh my God," she says a little breathily, staring down at my reddening arms. "This is bad."
I start searching for the word for "welt" in French. I don't know how normal it is to have three of them on my arms.
So the conclusion? I'm VERY allergic to dustmites, several types of pollen, and ragweed. I am slightly allergic to both cats and dogs. We're running more tests tomorrow, as I was freakishly allergic to half of the tests she ran. And the doctor needs to make sure I don't have respiratory problems as a result of my allergies, as apparently that's the next step in symptoms.
"Do you get out of breath when you run?" she asked.
"Yeah," I answered, "Doesn't everybody?"
Still, she wants to be sure. She says when allergies as severe as mine go untreated for years and years, bronchial problems can arise. And, if that all checks out, she's putting me on some sort of immuno-therapy so that I can hopefully be allergy-free (or close to it) in 2-3 years.
Leaving her office, she said, "First things first: you're desperately allergic to dust. Clean your house. Get rid of carpets. Get a special mattress. Etc."
"Right," I said, "Do you think my health insurance would cover a new house? Because I can't exactly envision myself finding a new apartment just yet. But I bet you landlords would be more willing to rent to me if they knew that social security was paying for a part of my rent."
She didn't think it was covered. Damn health care!
The cool thing about discovering that I actually have a bunch of genuine allergies is that I was finally able to make some connections. Two weeks ago, I lost a few nights of sleep because I had so much trouble breathing. My allergies were so strong that I could not really concentrate or do anything of worth. Just sitting up and breathing was enough work for me. Coicidentally, one of the pollen tests (one of the three that resulted in welts) corresponded to a pollen that pops up in certain parts of France - Paris included - mid April. So suddenly, it all made sense.
"I'm just happy to know I'm not crazy," I said. "I've never just had my nose become one giant blockade for days on end. I could hardly even talk, and I took seventy hot showers per day just to clear out the nose a little. I really thought I might be going insane."
"No. You're not. It was a good thing you came, even if just to check up on that fact alone," she laughed, and then told me I'll see her tomorrow. We're checking out my lungs on Thursday! Woo-ee! Hope it's not asmtha! ALRIGHT!
So here's the funny thing: Mom and Dad are coming to stay in Paris for a few days. No problem, right? They've got their usual hotel and what not, I figured I'd make a booking and we would all go out for a café crème together.
But, um... no.
Turns out, there is not a SINGLE HOTEL IN PARIS with a room available on Wednesday, May 17. I called and called and called, then finally gave up and did an Expedia search. Ok, fine. I was wrong. There was ONE hotel with a room. It cost over $8,000.
Otherwise, NO HOTELS! In the ENTIRE city! Can you tell because I am using CAPS and EXCLAMATION POINTS that I find this whole thing incredible! Not even an AIRPORT HOTEL!!!
Confused, I called back my parents' normal hotel and asked them why it was so hard to get a room for Wednesday. Word on the street says there's some sort of soccer championship. I had no idea, of course. I suppose this is why the rest of you have televisions and stuff.
So right. I get rid of the couch in my living room, only to invite my parents to town to sleep over. Smart.
IN A TOTALLY UNRELATED TOPIC
Did you all see Bill O'Reilly on David Letterman in January? I saw a segment of the clip, but never the whole thing. I randomly stumbled upon it while reading up on the 2006 elections. I think that is revealing: searching for election information, I somehow found my way to two entertainers (one of whom is obviously only questionably so...) discussing politics.
Anyway, I found the exchange made for good television. I remember the press was all over it awhile back, but if you didn't see it you can do so here (below). You might have to agree to being over 18 or something to watch it, first.
Read more »Today at work, this guy came in and said, "Are you the new owner here? Everything is different."
My answer: "American."
He looked at me quizzically, and then I said, "Did I misunderstand you?"
And he said, "I think so."
I had heard, "Are you not from here? What is your accent?"
This was very embarassing, but that's ok. He bought a couple hundred euros worth of books from me and stayed afterwards and chatted me up, something that pretty much never happens to me at my job anymore (clientele is just not the type). I decided that he likes his women stupid.
The couch saga has ended. We got rid of the old one, the landlord didn't foist her basement couch on me. We have two wooden chairs from Senegal (they're very low) and are otherwise quite content to just leave the living room as is. I'll have to buy a roll-up mattress for guests, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. It's weird, but I am really enjoying the empty space in our teeny little room. I even do my work on the floor now.
Meanwhile, it is BEAUTIFUL in Paris now and I am trying my damndest to keep some balance in my life. I am aching to be outside as much as possible, and I have indulged with an hour or two on a cafe terrace each day, along with a decent amount of walking to and fro.
These are sacrifices I am making in terms of time, but they are well-needed breaks for my overall well-being. Otherwise, I might just sink under the pressure of things I have to get done, and suffer from the agony of being indoors when the sky is so blue.
The work situation is a little overwhelming -- my job is getting faster and faster paced and I feel myself just keeping afloat. I'm managing, but whoa. My boss, however, is quite happy: we exceeded our projected sales numbers, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being a little giddy about that.
Meanwhile, I have exams coming up in four weeks. I know to a lot of people, four weeks seems like a long while. I used to be one of those people, myself. But not working very hard for the entire school year is catching up with me, and I am just now coming to terms with how much I have to study to make up for all this lost time. I've never really been a studier (anybody who has been in school with me can pretty much attest to that), but there's not really any other option. Memorizing vocab requires studying, no way around it. So I'll have to make do. Hell, I've even made flashcards.
With that, I return to the books.
