Nightmares

Working in a fast food joint, you get inured to a lot of things. Smells, for instance; in highschool I breezed through chemistry classes that made other people physically pass out from the stink. Going to the dump doesn't bother me. Neither does the smell of rotting corpses (I live in an area with a lot of possums, and hey, they've gotta die some time--often they land on our lawn, and guess who cleans 'em up.) I'm kind of inured to oil, too, for that matter. I'm still picky about having wet or oily substances on my face, but on my hands, my clothes, my food--doesn't bother me at all. This is a survival mechanism; most fast food restaurants will dump food that doesn't get sold within about 10 minutes of being made, so there's a nigh-constantly full bin of scraps, and anyone who's ever walked within five metres of a deep frier can tell you all about the oil.

However, I am now deeply, accutely disturbed by wild rats, and often have nightmares involving them. And it's not just because I've watched Willard far too many times.

Every place that sells food has rats. It's a fact of life. Rats learn that there's an easy meal when unsold stock gets thrown out, and often grow bold enough to try sneaking into cupboards and freezers. That's part of the reason rats disturb me; seeing ten or twelve frozen corpses being pulled out of the freezer when the rats made their one and only doomed attempt at nesting in their is the stuff of nightmares for me. Rest assured that all the food they managed to eat before they carked it was summarily disposed of.

The other reason is that we used to have rats living under the deep frier we used to cook chips in. We didn't mind having them there as long as they didn't come out when there were customers around--they saved us the trouble of having to clean up the chips that fell under the machine occasionally, and they were a great way to scare the trainees. However--and you're going to want to stop reading NOW if you're easily squicked--there was one incident that managed to almost make me puke on the job, where the other delightful aspects of fast food preparation had failed.

The easily squicked should stop reading now. Seriously. This was not pleasant.

Hell, if you're only moderately squicked but eat fast food a lot, you might want to stop reading now. This put me off my food for a long time.

Are all the squickable people gone now?

Okay.

...god, this is squicking me just trying to think how to write about it.

So one night, about eight o'clock, I'm on shift. There's a lull in the customers, thank god. It's just me, two other girls on the counter, two guys in the kitchen, and the manager, who's currently setting up tills for the next shift. I go to do something with the deep frier (exactly what is escaping my memory at the moment,) and notice a particularly large, chubby-looking rat sitting on top of the fry cover.

I start talking to it while doing whatever I'm doing with the deep frier, as you do.

"Hey, little guy. How's life? You look oilier than I feeeeeeHOLY SHIT." The 'holy shit' was because this rat had just taken a suicide leap off the fry cover and into a vat of boiling oil.

In the end, I was splattered with oil and had to end my shift early to perform minor first aid on myself, we had to shut down the deep frier and replace all the oil, and the rat's corpse was thrown out. But the worst part--the absolute worst part of the night--was that the stupid fucking rodent didn't die straight away. It was swimming and thrashing around in the oil for a good five minutes. We couldn't get it out because it was spraying up enough oil to seriously damage someone. It looked like a giant, slightly fuzzy chicken nugget with feet. Thrashing in the oil. The oil in which we cook food. Excuse me while I throw up a little bit.

Now, for the fast food job I put up with a lot. It was the only place highschoolers in my area could really find reliable employment. I was abused, sexually harassed, and even memorably assaulted by customers at that store... but the rat did it. I went home that night and had nightmares about that damn rat. I quit that job two days later and spent some time seriously considering drug trafficking as an acceptable alternative to returning to the fast food field.

Random segues

A short blog tonight, because I've had a long day with a longer weekend lined up...

When I worked in retail, one of my many tasks was answering the phone--and did we ever get a lot of wrong numbers. Such as this memorable gem;

Me: "Thank you for calling Store Name, how may I help you?"
Caller: "Is this the bakery?"
Me: "No, sir. You have the wrong number. This is Store Name, the clothing retailer."
Caller: "That's impossible! You have to be the bakery!"
Me: "I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number."
Caller: "Listen, you little--oh, I get it! Is this an April Fool's joke?"
Me: "No, sir. We--"
Caller: "Ha! That's hilarious! But seriously, can you put aside twenty ham and cheese rolls? My names X, I'll come pick them up in half an hour."
Me: "...of course, sir. Have a nice day."
Caller: "You too! Haha. April Fool's."

Note: It was September.

I despised that store. There were many reasons; the perpetually pregnant manager who thought paying us eight bucks an hour should ensure her right to sexually harrass whoever she wanted as well as being a racist/sexist bitch was probably the biggest (both physically and metaphorically) but the long, boring shifts and ridiculous location probably didn't help. I only stayed there for a month or two, before moving on to the fast food place.

It's probably not true, but it seems to me that with the exception of a few independant stores, all managers in the retail industry are absolute bitches. I have friends who are still working in retail, sometimes in more than one store, and they've all confirmed this impression; no one particularly nice hangs around long enough to get the manager's slot. In the food service industry, most owners/managers that I've met have been decent (it's usually the assistant managers that are bitchy) and I'm yet to meet a stable owner I didn't like (although I bet there's quite a few out there that'd have me in a beserker rage in record time.)

Speaking of horses, some good news came through--due to my not losing the office bitch job, and a sudden increase in the hours and shifts available to me, I am no longer walletscraping (which does make the URL of my blog a little redundant, but what can you do.) Since I'm now living at home while my mother is sick, it's lead had a very comfortable increase in my weekly spending money--I have about a hundred extra dollars padding my wallet, and it's now simply up to me what I blow them on.

And since I've recently had a yen to get back into riding, I think that's exactly what I'm going to do with it. Hell, if one of the local stables is hiring, I might even drop a resume in--though I think I should probably get back in the saddle and have a few lessons first. I'd bet money that right now, I'm apallingly rusty.

Wicked Witch of the what?

I feel the need to say this now, since this marks the second blog in which people of Christian faith have filled an antagonistic role in my little stories. I do not, of course, believe all Christian people are like this--I have no problem with the religion as a whole, I've met some perfectly lovely Christians, blah, blah, blah. It just happens that the neighbourhood in which I lived and worked at the time had a fairly large population of completely batshit insane people. Some of them were Christians, such as those featured here. Many of them were not, and have been (and doubtlessly will be) featured many times here. So Christians; unless you're a member of Westboro Baptist, my somewhat disparaging remarks about people of Christian faith throughout this blog very probably do not apply to you.

I have a lot of theatrically talented friends, and they often shanghai me into helping them with their various theatrical productions--not in any kind of starring role, because I can't actually act or sing. I can, however, paint one hell of a backdrop, among other notable backstage-worthy talents. While you do tend to end up getting paid in hilarity ensuing rather than money, there's the added bonus of having absolutely no dress code. (It's worth noting that during this time period, I was also a fan of big fluffy black trench coats and long flowing black lacy skirts and often overdosed on eyeliner and black nail polish. I also naturally tend to look creepy or intimidating a lot of the time.)

The production I was working on was a musical--what it was called isn't really relevant, but it was being performed in a hall on the same block the church I cleaned at the time. The Saturday morning before opening night, we had a full dress rehearsal and run through. I got there quite early with the other stagehand types (decked out in full goth regalia,) and got to work. I wiped down backdrops. I oiled the wheels on mobile set pieces. I ironed costumes. I sharpened eyeliner. I even vacuumed the curtains. And I refilled the fog machine. The end result of all manual labour was, of course, a sweaty goth girl with frizzy hair, runny eyeliner, and pockets filled with dry ice, wrapped in paper. (Yes, I steal small amounts of dry ice when I get the chance. Why? Because dry ice is awesome. Duh.)

Two of the other stagehands ask me to go to lunch with them, and I agree. We decide to walk past the church on the way there, because I had been told that there were some religious nuts who were going to protest there the next day, and I wanted to ask the reverend if he wanted me to come by and make sure the lawn was cleaned up after they left.

Well we got to the church, and as it turned out, the religious nuts had decided against a Sunday protest (I guess it must have been too much work for a Sabbath day.) Instead, they were going with a Saturday protest. They were handing out pamphlets on the usual stuff--condoms will kill you, you'll go to hell if you have an abortion, gay people want to cut your heart out and molest your children with it, etc. They were also giving out involuntary baptisms--i.e., throwing water on random pedestrians who the protesters believed had 'the devil in them.'

So: especially freaky, somewhat worn-out goth chick. Redneck Christian fanatical protesters with buckets of holy water. With me so far?

(Daniel, re: your comment on PSA #2: I don't think throwing liquid counts as a form of assault in my country, because these guys were throwing a lot of liquid and as far as I know no charges have been laid. Of course, it might just have been because they didn't chance to throw it on any coppers or barristers.)

Of course when the protesters saw me, they decided I definitely had the devil in me. (Because, of course, I dress differently to them and probably do not share their beliefs! I Am Evil Incarnate!) And, screaming various things about Jesus and exorcisms and blessings, they proceeded to douse me heavily in holy water.

What they had forgotten about (and admittedly what I had forgotten about until the water made contact) was the dry ice, still in my pockets. The water soaked through the paper and hit the ice, causing it to melt and produce rather a lot of steam.

So: crazy bogan Christian protesters throw holy water on what is presumed to be some random goth girl on the street. Smoke starts billowing from inside the goth girl's clothes. What does the goth girl do?

Scream "I'M MELTING, I'M MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING," at the top of her lungs, of course.

The bogan protesters now think they've got a real live demon on their hands, so of course they throw on more holy water, which make more of the dry ice go off. I run down the street, wailing like a banshee, circle back, and go into the church via the back door. I have a very brief chat with the reverend about when he'll next want me there, then stroll out the front doors and through the crowd of rednecks like nothing has happened. They, naturally, freak. I, slightly damper than previously, rejoin my friends (laughing their asses off slightly further down the street) and we merrily go to lunch.

If you find the right church in the right city, you can probably still hear the bogans whisper about the time Satan walked among them.

PSA #2: Why I Eat Meat

The other day, I was wearing leather boots. I wear leather boots a lot--most of mine are old and beat-up and comfortable. These ones looked kind of new, because I'd buffed them up with Dubbin (it shines and waterproofs the leather) the night before.

Anyway, I was walking through a square in the city, and a protester threw tomato sauce all over my nice, clean, buffed-up leather boots and new jeans that for once in my life actually fit okay. Needless to say, I was slightly unhappy, and expressed myself vocally to this protester. Turns out they were vegetarians crusading for an end to animal slaughter.

Now, ignoring the fact that the grain and vegetable industries kill several hundred million tiny animals like field mice and rats with big harvesters every year (why don't vegetarians protest safer way of harvesting grain? I guess rats and mice aren't cute enough--though I personally am often worried by the thought of minced rat ending up in the wheat used to bake my bread,) I believe in eating meat. It's good for you, after all--in a different way to how broccoli and carrots are good for you, sure, but it's still good for you.

When I was younger and more idealistic, I thought I would become a vegetarian. I like almost all animals. Horses like me better when I smell herbivore than when I smell carnivore. Then... I met chickens.

My mum kept one or two chooks at various times in her life when she was a kid, little bantam hens and one rooster named Studley. Now, I love bantam hens. They're not part of the meat or egg industry, although I guess you could use the hens for laying. They're mostly backyard pets. I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about all those grotesquely fat, blond chickens that will one day end up on your plate.

Look at the eyes of a meat industry chicken. (Yes, I'm including free-range in this. They're the same breed.) Now go watch Dawn of the Dead, and look at the eyes of the zombies. There's a distinct resemblance--shrewd, but dumb as a box of hammers.

Actually, now that I think of it, chickens are mean bitches.

Maybe a better example would be a meat industry cow. Again, look at the eyes of a cow, then at the eyes of a movie zombie from Shaun of the Dead or something. Same thing. Shrewd, but so, so stupid. They have all the personality of a hamburger on hooves. And unpleasant, too--cows can (and do) projectile shit when they run. Often they drool, piss, and shit at the same time. An entire herd of cows running around with every orifice leaking is a sight to behold. Especially at feeding time. If one cow sprays the five cows next to it with dung, none of them notice--they all just keep eating.

If we didn't eat cattle, they would become extinct. If we turned them loose they'd just follow us around, waiting for us to go refill their feeding trough--still leaking, of course. There's only a couple of species of truly wild cattle left. They mostly live in Asia and their numbers are diminishing--animals like the kouprey and the gaur. There definitely aren't enough around to knock sense into our domestic steaks. Meat industry cattle have been bred for generations to have the intellect of your average rock, and to taste great when roasted with potato and onion.

I personally would rather not feel responsible for the end of a species, so I keep on eating cow.

Volunteer work

I am doing an extremely labour-intensive, time-consuming, frustrating job this weekend. It will take up both days and around twenty hours. I will not be getting paid, aside from maybe a pizza (which admittedly is enough to con me into doing a fair bit. I do love pizza. However... not this much.) Generally speaking, though, if you want me to work on a weekend, for twenty hours, there'd better be some cash involved. In fact, I'm making a fairly significant financial investment in these twenty hours, one I don't believe will ever actually be returned (around $400, which is quite a lot given I still have to buy my textbooks and pay my fees for the next semester of uni, on top of monthly expenses.) To attend, I have dodged out of a fairly significant social event, several hours of paid work, and a whole lot of errands which would be a lot easier to accomplish than this is going to be.

But despite all that, I will be there anyway. Because, in the end, I think it's a good cause.

No, it's not a charity (though I do sink a lot of time and money into Canteen, the Cancer Council, and the Stalight Children's Foundation.) It's one of my highschool friends' first ever venture into the world of film-making.

The film is short, and based off Robert Louis Stephenson's novella The Suicide Club (and yes, it is exactly what it says on the can.) I'm helping pay to rent some sound equipment and a fog machine, and I'm also helping build and break down the (not huge but still hefty) set, set up sound and light equipment, clear trash out of the place we're shooting the outdoor scenes, apply powder to sweaty, shiny faces, and try to keep everyone quiet on the set and on-track. And keep Cormorant, the friend, sane.

If Cormorant wasn't a fairly close friend, and a total sweetheart, and insanely talented, and also kinda cute, there is no way I would be giving up my weekend and my money for it... but he is all those things, and I'm still a drama nerd at heart, so... here we go.

Unfortunately I'm also starting uni on Monday--so this next week or so is going to have a few touches of complete insanity. I'm taking four subjects, which is officially a full time load, and involves twenty study hours a week as of Week 2.

Fortunately I'm not officially jobless yet--the head of the team I usually work with and for has suggested to one of the corporation's managers that I be given a private contract to keep my hours flexible but remove me from the books as a casual worker. This would be quite frankly awesome if it happened, so... we'll see how it goes down. In the mean time I'm still going to be quietly handing my resume out to everyone with a 'Now Hiring' sign on their door, and quite a few places that don't. It's a cringe-worthy experience. I know none of them will pay as well as my current job and I will quite possibly have to take two seperate ones, or start working night shifts again (which I think may well kill me.) We'll just see how this goes. I'll tell you one thing, though--this is inducing a lot of hooker moments.