Bulging packages. Yeah, I said it.

Alright, so work was slow today. Really slow. So slow, that I spent 2 hours detailing the men's sweats. Happily.

Prior to that, however, I asked my boss what she wanted me to do. She told me to fill the men's underwear.

Can I just stop for a moment and dwell on how pervy I feel filling men's underwear? It's not that I feel weird touching the packages that hold the scraps of cloth that will eventually be spending quality time with some stranger's private areas (though now that I'm thinking about it like that, it doesn't make it any better, either), but mostly the problem is this: the packages are covered in men in underwear. And not their faces either, oh no, it's a whole big crotch-shot party in the men's underwear section. Nothing but bulging packages all around me (pun completely and shamelessly intended). I pick up a package of underwear, my hands are all over some dude's crotch.

I do have to say, though, that it make me laugh when I'm stocking underwear and teenage guys come in to the department. Some of them try to mess with me (and I mess with them right back), but most--especially the ones with their mothers--try to avoid whichever aisle I'm currently in, grab the first semi-acceptable thing they can while fastidiously avoiding eye contact, and leave as silently and quickly as possible.

I have to to giggle a little when that happens.

And then there's the guys, like the proceeding one, who think they'll have some fun with me and get the tables turned on them.

I'm stocking t's, which are right next to the underwear.

Dude: "Hey, can I ask you something?"
Me: "Sure. What can I help you with?"
Dude: "Well, I was just wondering, do you think I'd look good in these?"
[Holds up a package of men's thongs.]
[I look him up and down.]
Me: "Oh yeah, you could definitely pull it off."
[said with complete sincerity]

He blushed, stuck the thongs back on their hook, and walked away. Don't mess with me, boys. I have four brothers, and spent 3 of my 4 years of college practically living in my husband's fraternity house. You aren't going to make me blush.

Still, I feel like a perv fondling all the underwear packages of models who are obviously toting an extra sock or two around in their drawers.

Short and unsweet.

Apparently, I look tired. Like, ALL the time.

For the last 4 days, someone had made a comment about how tired I look at work.
Yeah, I'd say I'm tired. For 6 days in a row, I've had to work 7-9 hour shifts of running my disgruntled ass all over your damn store to pick up grumpy people's layaways, restock the entire infant section, go pick up my own shoe freight from receiving and cart it back to my stockroom so I can actually do my job.

"You look tired."

Headaches and carpal tunnel attack today. Incapacitatingly painful heart palpitations for the last 3 days.

Kiss my bum. And then give me a day off. KThxBye.

Reality doesn't accept returns.

Today, some man got pissed at me because I made a mistake ringing up his transaction, which caused him to be delayed (he was "kind of in a hurry") and have to go through a manager to get a correction.

This weekend my Grandpa told me he was ready to die.

Reality handed me a big, fat check. And I lost sympathy for this other guy's slight inconvenience on an idle Wednesday.

Lots of random, with a side of fur.

I honestly thought that working in retail during the holiday season would completely dampen my Christmas spirit and ruin it for me. But thankfully, it hasn't. Granted, I'm a little sick of flannel pj's and thermal underwear, but for the most part, I love all the Christmas-y stuff.

I put up my Christmas lights yesterday. The weather and I are fighting. Two days ago, when I had to work, it was a beautiful day. Warmer, sunny, light breeze. Yesterday, my day off and the designated "put up the damn lights already" day was cold, windy, and to top it off, it began snowing halfway through my endeavors. Grrr.

Also, I was a complete dunce and strung the lights up backwards. So I was left with two female ends when I wanted to plug them in. Dumbass, that's me.

I also got in a fight with the landscaping, and lost miserably. The neighbors probably think I'm special ed.

Oh man, today's little nugget of joy from the 'mart:
(Lame advertisement on the PA about the pharmacy carrying pet medications)
"At the KMart Pharmacy, we're here for every member of your family, even the furry ones."
My head: "EW. Furries."

And then I laughed out loud. The shoppers at Kmart probably think I'm special ed too.

I survived Black Friday! Too bad not everyone escaped unscathed.

Today's entry shall be expressed in limerick:

One day at my boring old store,
Some bitch stole a purse and walked out the door.
But they chased her down
And called the cops around.
And I laughed my ass off when they cuffed her took her away.

The end.

It's not the what, it's the why.

I'm tired.

Last week, as I'm happily (yes, that is sarcasm) sorting through hanging freight with my boss, she tries to nonchalantly ask if I'm looking for full-time work. Elsewhere. I told her it would be nice to have something full time. She asks me if I like retail. I lie and say that it's not so bad. Then she continues asking questions about if I'm "actively" looking for something full time. I lie again.

I hate lying, but I figured a white lie, or a not-quite-truth, would be better than going, "Are you kidding me? Of course. Anywhere but here sounds like a good idea to me."

I'm scared that she was asking because they want to offer me a full-time position. Why does that scare me? Because I'd say yes because we really, really need the money, and I don't want to work there full time. It makes it a lot harder to get away. And more difficult to schedule interviews for potential other jobs. (Not that I'm having that problem now. Actually, I would love to have that problem, it would mean I was getting an interview somewhere.)

Anyway, the week I'm about to embark on is begging to not happen. I want to call them tomorrow morning and quit. I want to not have to work until 8, 9, and 11 PM on all the days that my families are celebrating Thanksgiving. I want to be able to have a Thanksgiving before next Tuesday. I want to have my weekends off and not have to go in at 6 AM to sign a footwear add.

I want a big-girl job where I can wear business attire and not black pants and a white polo. I don't want to wear a name tag that reads, "I'm here to help you!" I want to do something that feels more worthwhile than pandering to consumers and making money for a corporation I dislike.

I once wrote a letter to myself while attending a greek leadership conference during the summer. At the end of the letter, I wrote to myself, "It doesn't matter what you do. It's why you do it."

I want to do something that matters. Something whose "why" is more than "because we need the money to survive."

Anything. Anything at all. To be perfectly blunt: I hate my job. Every time I go in, I'm miserable. Even on my days off, I'm miserable because I have to go back tomorrow. I hate it. I'm completely unhappy and most days, I want to cry. I keep praying for something, anything, to come along, but 3 months later, nothing. I've always believed that God has led me to where I'm supposed to be at that time, but right now, all I think is, WTF? KMart?

Liars, Time-wasters, and Retail. Oh My!

I hate when people lie to me. Hate. Hate. Hate.

Yesterday, a man came in to the jewelry department. Softlines takes jewelry calls. He asks me to change the battery in his watch. Now, in the past, the 'mart has done this for watches purchased at the store. They changed the policy. Since I've been employed there, they have not. We also cannot change watch bands.

I kindly explain to the man that because of liability issues, the store's new policy will not allow me to change his watch battery for him. Instead, I offered to help him find the appropriate battery and explain how the process should be done. This is the conversation we had after my explanation:

"But I bought it here. You always used to change the battery."
"I know. The policy has changed, though, and we cannot do it even for watches purchased here."
"That's crap! I brought my wife's watch in here just a couple weeks ago and had it changed."
(He looks at me expectantly as if to say, "Whatcha got to say about that, missy?")
I continue, "Well, sir, I'm not sure who did that, but it is against our policy."

The look he gave me before turning and walking away was plain as day. I caught him in a lie, and he walked away saying nothing else.

I hate being lied to.

I also hate women who come to the jewelry counter to browse for themselves and make me open 3 cabinets over and over again to try on jewelry that they cannot afford. One ring, one necklace, sure. But once I ring up one 14K gold ring with a real diamond and it's beyond your price range, don't make me waste another 20 minutes while you have to look at seven other rings that are exactly the same! One in cabinet A, then B, then D, then back to A, on to C, then A again, and B, and so on, because I have to relock the cabinets after closing them. While I'm wasting my time as you "Ooo" and "Aah" over rings you're not going to buy, two other customers, who might have purchased something, have left because they're tired of waiting. They might have bought something, something on which I might have earned a commission.

Liars and Time-wasters. Boo.

Black Bile

Today at the 'mart, the radio wasn't working. There was dead silence for most of the day, except for every 2-3 minutes, one of those annoying promos would play. And the one even said, "And now back to more music on the KMart radio channel . . ." or something like that, only to be followed by silence. Kind of funny, actually.

But anyway, only one song would play. ONE. Every 50-60 minutes. I know this because I worked for 5 hours today, and heard it 5 times. It's also the same song that I heard 3 times in one shift last weekend, and 2 times the next day--both times when the radio was working. It's a bad song, too. Now, if it was Backstreet Boys or Spice Girls, or something like that, would I be complaining? Hell to the no.

Moving on, I'm still on the job hunt. It's not really going well. At by not going well, I actually mean it's not going anywhere. At. All. Everyone's hiring PT seasonal help, and if I go somewhere else, it's simply SSDD. I'm trying, I really am, but I'm coming up short and quite frankly, it's resulted in an excessive amount of black bile. (For those not familiar with the "humours" popular during the Renaissance, Google is your friend.)

I'm scrambling for anything FT right now, as it will inevitably pay better than the 'mart. Any tips? Leads? I'm all pixels.

This was supposed to be a rant, but somehow turned into Lingerie 101.

Let's preface the following by saying that I had a mediocre day. Not bad, not good. Just in between.

Now, I'm going to be honest here. I get a little bit weirded out when I go to pick up drops from the fitting room and I find bras, lingerie sets, and those little teddy things. I know that some people like to try things on so they don't have to return them, but if it's not Victoria's Secret--Don't. Okay? It's weird to go pick those things up and know that within the last few hours, someone's potentially bare breasts were in them.

It's worse when the cup of the bra is large enough to hold my head too. Okay, so you got some big girls goin' on, fine. But go home and try your sexy santa lingerie on. Most likely, you're man is going to be there and he can tell you if he actually likes it or not. Or, he may be like my husband, who, when asked in VS if he liked a particular set, threw it on the floor, and said, "Looks good." In which case, there is no need to waste your money on a faux-velvety red number with that god-awful white feathery trim. Throw on a pair of his boxer and a wife beater with no bra. Or, prance around in one of his tshirts and nothing else. Better yet, just get naked. It makes things less time consuming, less complicated, and less expensive. After all, the goal is nudity anyway, right?

Oh, but if you're going to try out nudity, you may want to do it at home. There's these laws against public nudity that will spoil all your fun if you try to frolic through my store in your birthday suit.

Srsly?

Today, I walked into the retail chain of death and spotted an old Hardee's cup stuck inside a boot on the endcap of the shoe department:
1. Gross.
2. Hilarious.
3. Not the worst, so I've been told.

I ran off to the footwear manager to tell her this little nugget of joy, and she informed me that one time, someone spit tobacco into one of the shoes:
1. GROSS.
2. NOT FUNNY.
3. GROSS.

And in the past 2 days, I have worked 15 hours in this store. I also heard the same song 5 times. This was mostly just annoying, with a side of suicide-inducing.

So endeth my day.

Shoes have never made me miserable before.

It took me just over 4 hours this morning to sign the new footwear ad. It's taken me less time to write papers for classes.

I'm at this strange place in my job hunting (for anything except retail) where I'm either grossly over-qualified or I'm marginally under-qualified. I've sent out a ridiculous number of job applications and resumes. Ridiculous. I had to buy a new package of resume paper recently. That's how many I've sent out in the last year. And yet I am at the bottom of the retail ladder. I believe at this point that my resume/cover letter must be completely average to not even get but a handful of interviews. And I must be god-awful in person if the only place whose interview I passed was the one where they asked me 3 questions: Why do you want to work at KMart? Do you like fashions? How is your closet organized?
We then chatted about my stupidly over-organized closet space and my affinity for speeding down the highway and not getting caught. I walked out 10 minutes later with a job.

I can't catch a break. Either they look at me like I have 5 heads because I hold a Masters degree and want to work as an office secretary or I have "technically" the required degree and might be able to swing the required experience, but never well enough to get a foot in the door. It's all very discouraging. And what doesn't help is that my Mom calls me once a week to read me the classified ads from the local paper and tell me all these jobs that are available.

"You could do this."
"I bet they don't actually require those qualifications, they just say that."
"Well, you did such-and-such for two years, that's close enough isn't it?"

No, Mom. Tutoring students on writing skills for one year does not qualify as "three to five years experience in editing and publishing." Nor does working as a student worker in Financial Aid equivocate to "substantial experience in Enrollment Services or similar setting."
Despite the number of times I tell her to stop looking for that next big opportunity, she never does. I don't think she realizes that her pushing jobs at me that I'm not even remotely qualified for only discourages me further. I can't get jobs I'm over-qualified for, or ones that I'm actually qualified for. Now she wants me to deal with rejection from ones whose requirements I'm not even close to meeting?

Every Sunday, a phone call, an email, or a voicemail. "It's your mother. I was just looking at the newspaper and found some jobs you might be interested in . . . ."

Some days, I'm grateful that she cares so much to keep looking. It does show that she only wants what's best for me. Some days, I want to scream and shout at her. And other days, days like today where I spent 4 hours signing footwear, it makes me want to cry from frustration and, let's face, misery.

I may look young, but I'm not that young. And I know I don't look stupid.

The thing about working in retail at my age that keeps irritating me is that customers (and even some of my coworkers) see me and think I'm under the age of 18. I know, when I'm 50 and people are telling me I look 40, I'll be thankful. I get it. But if one more person (specifically coworkers in this scenario) looks at me and says, "You are 18, right?" I might scream. Yes, I'm past 18. I entered legal adulthood more than 6 years ago. I can scan alcohol. I can push the button on the compactor. I can purchase, rent, or see R-rated films. I can buy pornography if I want to. I can also walk into a bar and have a drink, with a real ID. Woah.

Do I really look 16? I don't think so. I can see where people might think I'm 20 or 21, I do look younger than I am, but to question if I'm 18? It just seems a little extreme.

So, beyond coworkers, this looking-young thing is not working for me in most areas of my life or in retail right now. For starters, I teach part-time at the local community college. I look like I'm the same age as some of my students. It undermines my authority a little, though it's not as bad here as it has been in any previous teaching positions I've held. I know I'm young and I've got a lot to learn about life, but I'm not stupid. I also have a Masters degree. They don't just give those out like Snickers on Halloween. It does show that I have some competence in my field. Maybe not a lot, but some.

Anyway, back to retail. Coworkers aside--I can live with that, and even take it as a compliment--I'm continually frustrated by some customers who come in to the store and treat me like an idiot. I have to stand there and listen to them shout at me like I'm some dumbass who can't understand English. It's even worse if I ask questions to clarify what they're telling me (in most cases, complaining about) and have to watch them roll their eyes and repeat themselves slower and louder than before. I'm asking for verification, not deaf.

The real struggle is that I know how capable I am to be doing something more with my life than tracking down UPCs of untagged clothes and restocking diapers. I didn't accumulate $50,000+ in student loans to be talked down to, disrespected, and made to feel like some slave just because I work at KMart. I've never been the type of person to be rude to anyone who works in a service industry, whether it is retail, food service, any skilled trade, but I am extremely careful now when I go out to be more courteous than before because I know that it can take 1,000 "thank-you's" to even put a dent in the disrespectful bitch's tirade.

If those rude people who came into the store ever stopped to consider that just because someone works at KMart doesn't mean that they're still in high school or uneducated, I would hope they'd treat people like me a little better. I'd put money on my being more educated that most of the inconsiderates who speak at me like I'm a stupid child.

For now, I'm stuck. We can't pay our bills without me working at least part time, and KMart is the first fish that gave me a bite. In fact, it is so far the only fish. Regardless, I'm planning my escape route so when the time arrives, I can be out of there faster than Edward Cullen can chase down a mountain lion.

It Starts

So, here's the deal.
This blog. Ugh.

I have approximately 2,346.7 blogs. This is just another one to add to that list. Except this one, unlike my other woe-is-me, dark-broody-poetry blogs, this one actually has a purpose. Here, in pixels, I'm cataloguing my experiences of being a college graduate working part-time at KMart. That's right. KMart.

Here's how it all began.

I can't remember a time when I wasn't constantly dreaming of the life I would have when I grew up. The funny thing is, I never really nailed down what I would be doing, but I knew--oh I just knew--that it would be awesome.

I was looking forward to college before I even got to high school. I applied to at least 5 colleges or universities, and got accepted to every single one. What can I say? I was an over-acheiver in high school. Not kidding. I was in everything: Spanish Club, English Club, Yearbook Staff, Newspaper Staff, Choir, Flag Team, Key Club, National Honor Society. If I was eligible to join, chances are I spent at least 1-2 years on that org's roster.

Then I went to college. I chose a small, liberal arts college close to home. I wanted to be able to bring my laundry home (and see my then-boyfriend more often). I got involved on campus. I joined a sorority, later became secretary, then recruitment director, and finally president. I was on the newspaper staff yet again. I worked no less than 2 jobs at any given time (at one point, I was working 3). I earned myself a 3.92 GPA on a 4.00 scale. I graduated from the honors program. I won awards for my writing and my work in the classroom. I knew most of the faculty (even ones I'd never taken a class from) and even more of the staff.

With graduation looming, I panicked. I had no clue what I was going to do after I graduated. I'd chosen to major in English. I loved reading and writing. I hadn't actually thought about what I was going to do with my non-education degree in English. So what did I do? The natural thing. I applied to grad school.

The summer between graduation and my first year in my Master's program, I got married (not to the HS b/f). I moved to the new town in which my new university was located. My husband and I survived paycheck to paycheck as we both worked on Masters degrees. I, again, worked 2 jobs. I worked as a TA my first year, a GA my second, and filled in all of my "free" time with part-time hours in the hospital kitchen across town. I helped orgranize the English Graduate Organization's annual conference (and I served as VP for that org for one year, as well as sitting as the student rep on the Writing Committee). I also managed to maintain a 4.00 through my entire Masters program. I wrote a 50 page thesis on Jane Austen's novel Emma and the movie Clueless. It was awesome.

Those two years are gone now, and I'm proudly holding a Master of Arts degree that displays in our office. And I work part-time at KMart.

Here's my problem: I did everything you're supposed to do in order to find success after school. I was involved, I took on leadership roles, I got outstanding grades, I networked with professors and professionals. I even took a class about job interviews, cover letters, and resumes. And the only place that would hire me was KMart. And they don't much care what my grades are, how many degrees I hold, how many honor societies I was a member of, or even if I know how to tie my own shoes. I was over the age of 16, and I wanted to work. End of interview.

If I did everything right, how did my life turn out so upside down?

I figured it out recently. In all my dreaming of the future, I never once planned for after college. All my life, college was the goal, not a step on the way to something else. It was the end result. And now I'm stuck in a future I never even had on my radar.

This is my diary. The diary of a twenty-something whose just beginning to really ask, "What the hell do I want to be when I grow up?"