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.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
By semi-popular request;
Fast food etiquette!
It's pretty simple, really--all it comes down to is 'don't be an ass.' There are a lot of things which people think are totally unacceptable that don't piss off fast food workers at all. We don't mind, for instance, if you fumble around with your wallet (unless you've yelled at us to hurry up, or been an impatient git, or been snarly with us along the lines of "Don't you DARE shortchange ME!")
If you're in a crazy hurry, you should not show up when there's a line of thirty-odd people in front of you. It's not at all uncommon for us to take five or so orders at a time and then go fill them all at once during busy periods, so you could well be delayed for ten minutes or so. Don't throw a hissyfit because you thought we would somehow be able to get to you in under a minute. If you must cancel your order, go ahead (though if you think you might have to cancel your order, it's preferable that you withold payment until it's delivered--if you pay before it arrives, we have to have a manger come to clear the order and give you your money back. If you don't, we can zero it ourselves.)
Don't try to grab your food before you've paid. We'll think you're trying to steal from us. Also, at least twice a day, people did this to me and then looked in the bag and bitched because it wasn't their food. If they'd waited for me to get their meal paid for and hand them the bag instead of snatching it like a greedy two-year-old, they wouldn't have an issue.
One that might be slightly specific to my store, or at least stores with similar locales (i.e. located in or near a major transit centre--railway stations, popular bus stops, etc.) but if you're catching a train or whatever, and you plan to get some food before you go, don't arrive a minute before the train is due to leave. I think this is just common sense, firstly because waiting an extra half-hour to get some food probably isn't as big a deal as waiting an extra half-hour to get the next train is, and secondly because the ticketees on the trains in my city will confiscate your food if you're caught eating on the train. This is common knowledge. In fact, quite frequently, I get people coming to my register who tell me "I was eating (insert healthy food here) on the train, but the ticketees took it and this is the closest store..." It works both ways. I honestly don't care if you eat on the train or whatever, it's not my problem, but giving yourself time to eat before you get on board is probably the best way to save time in the long run.
Another big no-no that relates to that; don't say "I want a large X meal with a Y for the drink, and I'm IN A HURRY, so make it FAST! Oh, and I'll have an A, a B, a large C, and three Ds," where A, B, C, and D are all known to be relatively complex, time-consuming items. That just pisses us off. As if that weren't bad enough, the same people who do that are also the people who are inclined to throw a tantrum if their very large order isn't made in under a minute, or if we serve other people while we wait for the guys out back to make it up. Note: complex items include burgers with vegetables other than pickles and onions; anything with the word 'deli' in the name; anything started to be a 'healthy choice'; anything that is referred to as a 'wrap' (i.e. comes wrapped in a tortilla or similar); any burger that you want changed, e.g., adding extra cheese or taking the onions off your burger. We don't mind you ordering any of these. That's not a problem. You're also well within your rights to ask for something to be taken off your burger--actually wait, that reminds me of something.
ASK. I know we say things like "Can I take your order" but that doesn't mean we're now your willing slaves. You ASK for your food, and you ask NICELY. Keeping your cool helps the poor server at the register to keep their cool, and an unflustered server is more likely to get your meal out quickly. First, because when we're flustered we make mistakes, like giving you Fanta instead of Coke or whatever. Second, because being nice to a server makes them like you and appreciate your ongoing patronage. If you're in a hurry, and you're polite, we won't mind if you ask us if there's anything we can do to get your meal out quicker--we'll be happy to poke our head in the kitchen and ask for your burger to be bumped to the top of the pile. But if you're rude to us, or snap at us for being slow, or whatever... we're going to stop giving a shit about you getting to your very important appointment on time and be very, very busy looking after the next person in line. If you are rude to your server during rush hour, you could be standing there for quite some time.
Anyway, back to before. We don't mind you asking for us to take pickles off your burger, or use the larger chopped onions instead of the diced onions, or whatver. We don't care if you order a ton of lettuce-tomato-deli-healthy-choice-wraps with no mayonaise. That's all cool, it's your right as a customer (unless the store, for whatever reason, has a no-substitutions policy--then just take what you're given with good grace, or else go to a different outlet.) But it will take time. If you just order one popular item, like a cheeseburger, and especially if you order them in rush hour, the guys in the kitchen will be prepared. They can slap together a cheeseburger in under a minute, and they usually take the time to make a buffer of five or so of each of the most popular items on the menu as rush hour starts. We can grab a fresh, hot cheeseburger for you straight off. If you order a cheeseburger with extra cheese, it goes to the back of the line, which might be twelve orders or more long. (Four registers operating, with three customers served at a time, each order taking on average a minute to fill.) Just be patient. It will get there. It is extremely rare for us to lose a special order. Don't yell at me because it isn't pre-made.
The people at the front counter cannot change your order once you've paid for it. Nor can they give you refunds. Ask to see a manager if you need a refund or a replaced burger because yours was fucked up somehow (and don't lambast the staff while you're talking to them--not only will it piss them off and your refund/replacement will take forever, it won't actually effect anything the staff member you're bitching about does, either, because they'll think you're just a hard-to-please asshat. Which, for about 80% of the people who ask for replaced/refunded food items, is true.)
Also, if the breakast menu isn't posted somewhere when you arrive, that means we're not serving it any more. Order something for the regular menu, or get the fuck out.
You see? It really does boil down to 'don't be an ass.'
It's pretty simple, really--all it comes down to is 'don't be an ass.' There are a lot of things which people think are totally unacceptable that don't piss off fast food workers at all. We don't mind, for instance, if you fumble around with your wallet (unless you've yelled at us to hurry up, or been an impatient git, or been snarly with us along the lines of "Don't you DARE shortchange ME!")
If you're in a crazy hurry, you should not show up when there's a line of thirty-odd people in front of you. It's not at all uncommon for us to take five or so orders at a time and then go fill them all at once during busy periods, so you could well be delayed for ten minutes or so. Don't throw a hissyfit because you thought we would somehow be able to get to you in under a minute. If you must cancel your order, go ahead (though if you think you might have to cancel your order, it's preferable that you withold payment until it's delivered--if you pay before it arrives, we have to have a manger come to clear the order and give you your money back. If you don't, we can zero it ourselves.)
Don't try to grab your food before you've paid. We'll think you're trying to steal from us. Also, at least twice a day, people did this to me and then looked in the bag and bitched because it wasn't their food. If they'd waited for me to get their meal paid for and hand them the bag instead of snatching it like a greedy two-year-old, they wouldn't have an issue.
One that might be slightly specific to my store, or at least stores with similar locales (i.e. located in or near a major transit centre--railway stations, popular bus stops, etc.) but if you're catching a train or whatever, and you plan to get some food before you go, don't arrive a minute before the train is due to leave. I think this is just common sense, firstly because waiting an extra half-hour to get some food probably isn't as big a deal as waiting an extra half-hour to get the next train is, and secondly because the ticketees on the trains in my city will confiscate your food if you're caught eating on the train. This is common knowledge. In fact, quite frequently, I get people coming to my register who tell me "I was eating (insert healthy food here) on the train, but the ticketees took it and this is the closest store..." It works both ways. I honestly don't care if you eat on the train or whatever, it's not my problem, but giving yourself time to eat before you get on board is probably the best way to save time in the long run.
Another big no-no that relates to that; don't say "I want a large X meal with a Y for the drink, and I'm IN A HURRY, so make it FAST! Oh, and I'll have an A, a B, a large C, and three Ds," where A, B, C, and D are all known to be relatively complex, time-consuming items. That just pisses us off. As if that weren't bad enough, the same people who do that are also the people who are inclined to throw a tantrum if their very large order isn't made in under a minute, or if we serve other people while we wait for the guys out back to make it up. Note: complex items include burgers with vegetables other than pickles and onions; anything with the word 'deli' in the name; anything started to be a 'healthy choice'; anything that is referred to as a 'wrap' (i.e. comes wrapped in a tortilla or similar); any burger that you want changed, e.g., adding extra cheese or taking the onions off your burger. We don't mind you ordering any of these. That's not a problem. You're also well within your rights to ask for something to be taken off your burger--actually wait, that reminds me of something.
ASK. I know we say things like "Can I take your order" but that doesn't mean we're now your willing slaves. You ASK for your food, and you ask NICELY. Keeping your cool helps the poor server at the register to keep their cool, and an unflustered server is more likely to get your meal out quickly. First, because when we're flustered we make mistakes, like giving you Fanta instead of Coke or whatever. Second, because being nice to a server makes them like you and appreciate your ongoing patronage. If you're in a hurry, and you're polite, we won't mind if you ask us if there's anything we can do to get your meal out quicker--we'll be happy to poke our head in the kitchen and ask for your burger to be bumped to the top of the pile. But if you're rude to us, or snap at us for being slow, or whatever... we're going to stop giving a shit about you getting to your very important appointment on time and be very, very busy looking after the next person in line. If you are rude to your server during rush hour, you could be standing there for quite some time.
Anyway, back to before. We don't mind you asking for us to take pickles off your burger, or use the larger chopped onions instead of the diced onions, or whatver. We don't care if you order a ton of lettuce-tomato-deli-healthy-choice-wraps with no mayonaise. That's all cool, it's your right as a customer (unless the store, for whatever reason, has a no-substitutions policy--then just take what you're given with good grace, or else go to a different outlet.) But it will take time. If you just order one popular item, like a cheeseburger, and especially if you order them in rush hour, the guys in the kitchen will be prepared. They can slap together a cheeseburger in under a minute, and they usually take the time to make a buffer of five or so of each of the most popular items on the menu as rush hour starts. We can grab a fresh, hot cheeseburger for you straight off. If you order a cheeseburger with extra cheese, it goes to the back of the line, which might be twelve orders or more long. (Four registers operating, with three customers served at a time, each order taking on average a minute to fill.) Just be patient. It will get there. It is extremely rare for us to lose a special order. Don't yell at me because it isn't pre-made.
The people at the front counter cannot change your order once you've paid for it. Nor can they give you refunds. Ask to see a manager if you need a refund or a replaced burger because yours was fucked up somehow (and don't lambast the staff while you're talking to them--not only will it piss them off and your refund/replacement will take forever, it won't actually effect anything the staff member you're bitching about does, either, because they'll think you're just a hard-to-please asshat. Which, for about 80% of the people who ask for replaced/refunded food items, is true.)
Also, if the breakast menu isn't posted somewhere when you arrive, that means we're not serving it any more. Order something for the regular menu, or get the fuck out.
You see? It really does boil down to 'don't be an ass.'
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
I'd swear this was karma...
...except that to the best of my memory, I haven't actually done anything that bad lately. Unless karma is very strictly Christian, in which case the roof will fall in any day now.
So yesterday, I found out that my time as an office bitch will be limited due to a company-wide restructure--which includes no more casual workers. I was offered a part time position, but since uni's getting back into full swing soon, that really doesn't suit me. This isn't really a bad thing, I've been meaning to get a different job for a while now, it's just going to be a pain. No one's really hiring right now, but I've got this job for a little bit longer, and I'm sure I'll find something.
But then the stove catches on fire. And the lights in the bathroom fail--twice. And just now a pipe in the upstairs sink burst and we had a moment of panic running around turning on all the taps and turn off the main water and put buckets under all the places it was seeping through the ceiling. So now that brings the last two day's total to three electrician visits, and one soon-to-be one emergency plumber's visit, and--very soon--no job.
Any second now a hive of killer bees is going to take up residence, I swear. I guess I'd better get started on the mea culpas.
So yesterday, I found out that my time as an office bitch will be limited due to a company-wide restructure--which includes no more casual workers. I was offered a part time position, but since uni's getting back into full swing soon, that really doesn't suit me. This isn't really a bad thing, I've been meaning to get a different job for a while now, it's just going to be a pain. No one's really hiring right now, but I've got this job for a little bit longer, and I'm sure I'll find something.
But then the stove catches on fire. And the lights in the bathroom fail--twice. And just now a pipe in the upstairs sink burst and we had a moment of panic running around turning on all the taps and turn off the main water and put buckets under all the places it was seeping through the ceiling. So now that brings the last two day's total to three electrician visits, and one soon-to-be one emergency plumber's visit, and--very soon--no job.
Any second now a hive of killer bees is going to take up residence, I swear. I guess I'd better get started on the mea culpas.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Daily Ritual
It's been a while between drinks, hasn't it? Sorry. My personal life is slightly more psychotic than usual, and I've found myself grievously afflicted by writer's block. Hopefully I'll be back to my usual, semi-regular posts soon.
There are far too many people in the world who--lucky bastards--having never had to work in the fast food industry. The consequence of this is that there are a lot of customers who either treat servers at fast food restaurants like shit, or otherwise inadvertently make things difficult for us.
Now one day I may actually write up a post detailing fast food etiquette or something, but for now, here is an example of your average, ten-hour weekend day shift. I worked lots of these during my school terms. Night shifts? Oh, that was just a whole new realm of purgatory.
On your average day, I'd start work at about eight in the morning. For me, and for many of my coworkers, getting to work entailed a twenty-minute bus or car ride to the nearest train station, then anywhere between ten and forty minutes on a train to get to the station in which our restaurant was located--which means leaving the house by seven. For me to get myself and my parents out of bed took at least two hours, so I was getting up at five in the morning so I could serve people their first dose of junk food.
Now, because we worked in a station, we had a fairly predictable ebb and flow of clientele based on the trains coming and going. There were six platforms, and we had lulls of about ten minutes twice an hour, in which we did all those little tasks no one ever thinks of until they're left undone--refilling straw and napkin dispensers and the drink machines, cleaning off tables in the dining room, sweeping and mopping the floors, emptying the bins, wiping down the counters, getting more chips and burger meat out of the freezers. Any customer who hasn't been there will bitch and moan when they can't get a straw right that second, or when their order takes a little longer because we have to restock the fries.
Anyway, the point is, I get in there just before eight o'clock, and rush into the broom closet that passes as a staff room to stash my bag (containing: wallet, hairbrush, extra hair ties, face wipes, coat and civilian clothes--we're not allowed to arrive, leave, or purchase food in uniform, and it is greasy in there) and put on my uncomfortably tight pants, shapeless sack of a shirt, and the ugliest hat in the world. Then I take several deep breaths, (usually) manage to resist the urge to run all the way home screaming, clock on, and march to the front counter with all the joy of your average funeral procession.
A harried-looking manager opens a new register for me and fills the draw with cash, then runs off to deal with whatever crisis has just come up--someone calling in sick, an unhappy customer, the other manager forgetting to order a shipment of bacon. I wave goodbye to the person I'm replacing (who has been on since ten o'clock last night, most of the time,) say hi to the other teenagers on the register, then wait resignedly for my first customer.
They don't waste time--junkies come in thick and fast for their first fat-and-salt fix of the day. We're on breakfast menu, and it sucks--until we switch over to lunch menu, every third or fourth person will want fries, which we're not making yet, or a cheeseburger, which we're not making yet. Breakfast is at least usually slightly quieter than the rest of the day; most people are too busy running to work or wherever to stop and pick up an order.
Either way, we're still run very slightly off our feet. In an hour, I'll fill between twenty and sixty orders. Just to run that past you--that kitchen, behind me? Walking within two metres of it causes you to instantly become coated with a layer of hot oil. Leaning over the chip machine has much the same effect. There's no chance to wipe it off or avoid it. If you've ever wondered why all fast food servers are pimply and gross, this is why.
Now, I make a round trip of about ten metres per order, let's say--that would be about average, given the number of times I have to walk to the freezers or store rooms out back to get something silly as well as the times I have to walk a five metre round trip to get a cup of coke. In reality it's probably slightly more than that, but never mind. Now, after the fifth hour of my shift, I get a half hour-ish break to choke down some food and scull a bottle of water, and I spend probably at least an hour and a half cleaning the dining room or mopping floors. Take out those two hours, and I end up walking about four kilometres per shift. I'm not sure how much distance I cover while cleaning or jogging down to the sandwich shop and back to get something actually edible, but I'd guess it's a fair amount.
Also: I have never once sat down while on shift. Even on the occasions there was free space in the employee closet, I didn't sit down. Most of us don't, simply because we know that if we sit down five hours into a ten hour shift, we will not be able to get back up again.
After the breakfast menu is finished, until at the very least noon, we will get people asking for stuff off of it. For the record: almost every fast food joint finishes it's breakfast menu at about 10:30AM. If you arrive within ten minutes of that time, you might be lucky, but otherwise, we will treat you with derision and scorn until you learn to check your damn watch.
The end of my ten hour shift is the worst part, because I have to somehow gracefully excuse myself with forty customers standing in front of me ready to lynch me if I do not serve them within the next five minutes. I usually end up being at least half an hour late to finish. Just so you know, fast food workers do not get overtime pay--if we stay past our shift, we are not going to be happy about it. We get paid eight bucks an hour and often less, and we're not going to stay on our feet any longer than we have to.
I make the hour-long trip home, eat something--if I can bring myself to after a day of swimming in oil--and collapse into bed. And then I get up the next day and do it again. And I don't even get to spit in the burgers.
I am always polite to those who serve me my fast food. For the love of god, do the same--not everyone is as scrupulous as we are about the cleanliness of your food.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Like falling off a horse
So I said I'd talk about one of my more spectacular falls, didn't I. This one wasn't particularly astounding, but it was somewhat amazing simply because of the amount of awful and awesome luck we had.
I was riding a horse, a three-and-a-bit year old bay stockhorse gelding named Viking (he had the most ridiculous ears--they curved out to either side, hence the name) who'd only been under saddle for about six months. Viking was an amazing horse--he was almost completely bombproof, could run forever, practically exploded over every fence the boss tried him on. He never bit or kicked or bucked, he stood quietly and picked up his feet for the farrier, and he tolerated small screaming children without so much as an ear flick. This was partly due to damn good training, and partly due to him having the most solid, quiet personality I've ever seen in a horse.
The only fault we ever had of Viking was that he was terrified of live snakes. A dead snake, snakeskin, or a garden hose wouldn't freak him out, but if someone picked it up or the wind blew it so it looked like it was moving, he was off like a shot, and it took a lot to get him to calm down again. We never put customers on him in summer, for this reason, and he was used a lot more in arena lessons than on trail rides just in case.
One day in early winter we were in the arena, working with cavaletti (poles placed on the ground to encourage the horse to lengthen his stride) when my eye was drawn to what looked like a green rubber band wrapped around a fence post near the heater. As we circled the arena and came towards it, I realised it was actually a tiny green snake--the kind of cute little snake I would have stopped to coo over had I been on any other horse--and it was waking up from a nap. Markhor, who was with us, noticed it the same time I did.
"Oh, sh--"
And then Viking noticed it, and he was so very out of there.
For those who've never been on a bolting horse--it's like sitting on your couch, and suddenly your couch turns into a hurricane. It is never comfortable. I jolted around for a few minutes, trying to circle him back and calm him down, then just sat down, held on, and tried to figure out where the hell he was going.
Where he was going, it turned out, was straight over the fence and down into a disused paddock overrun with lantana. I somehow managed to keep my seat over the jump and through the bush. I think this was the point where the cuts on my legs and arms (some of which later required stitching) were obtained, as were the cuts on Viking's haunches and flanks, and it's probable that this was also where the white, nylon girth holding Viking's saddle on, was torn. To recap: a very young, dependable horse has just taken off with me on his back, jumped over a four-foot fence and down into a paddock filled with extremely sharp bushes, injuring both of us, and cutting the strap that holds his saddle securely onto his back. My position was fairly precarious.
Viking jumped another fence and ended up in the large paddock most of the older horses lived in. At this point, I was hanging onto his reins and his mane with one white-knuckled hand and the saddle horn with the other. Eventually, he began to slow down of his own accord--I managed to get a proper grip on the reins again and got him to angle back towards the arena, and to transition from a lunatic gallop to a slightly more controlled canter. Markhor had come the long way around on her horse, Mini, a Clydesdale of epic proportions, and came up on Viking's outside to stop him from deciding to peel off suddenly, and another instructor, Roo, had seen him bolt and had come down to open all the gates on the way up to the smaller, indoor arena.
I managed to get Viking to a fast trot before we entered the arena, then to a slightly shaky walk, then a halt. I released my death grip on the reins and shifted slightly in my seat, and then came clean off the horse--with the entire saddle still with me. That was about the time we realised that the girth was broken, and that both I and the horse probably needed some medical attention.
Viking got about five stitches. I got about thirty. Doesn't seem fair, really. I can't say I learned any particular lesson from this one, except for maybe Nylon Girths Are Crap, or possibly Skydiving Is Safe And Relaxing. All in all I feel quite short-changed. And I never did get to see that snake again.
I was riding a horse, a three-and-a-bit year old bay stockhorse gelding named Viking (he had the most ridiculous ears--they curved out to either side, hence the name) who'd only been under saddle for about six months. Viking was an amazing horse--he was almost completely bombproof, could run forever, practically exploded over every fence the boss tried him on. He never bit or kicked or bucked, he stood quietly and picked up his feet for the farrier, and he tolerated small screaming children without so much as an ear flick. This was partly due to damn good training, and partly due to him having the most solid, quiet personality I've ever seen in a horse.
The only fault we ever had of Viking was that he was terrified of live snakes. A dead snake, snakeskin, or a garden hose wouldn't freak him out, but if someone picked it up or the wind blew it so it looked like it was moving, he was off like a shot, and it took a lot to get him to calm down again. We never put customers on him in summer, for this reason, and he was used a lot more in arena lessons than on trail rides just in case.
One day in early winter we were in the arena, working with cavaletti (poles placed on the ground to encourage the horse to lengthen his stride) when my eye was drawn to what looked like a green rubber band wrapped around a fence post near the heater. As we circled the arena and came towards it, I realised it was actually a tiny green snake--the kind of cute little snake I would have stopped to coo over had I been on any other horse--and it was waking up from a nap. Markhor, who was with us, noticed it the same time I did.
"Oh, sh--"
And then Viking noticed it, and he was so very out of there.
For those who've never been on a bolting horse--it's like sitting on your couch, and suddenly your couch turns into a hurricane. It is never comfortable. I jolted around for a few minutes, trying to circle him back and calm him down, then just sat down, held on, and tried to figure out where the hell he was going.
Where he was going, it turned out, was straight over the fence and down into a disused paddock overrun with lantana. I somehow managed to keep my seat over the jump and through the bush. I think this was the point where the cuts on my legs and arms (some of which later required stitching) were obtained, as were the cuts on Viking's haunches and flanks, and it's probable that this was also where the white, nylon girth holding Viking's saddle on, was torn. To recap: a very young, dependable horse has just taken off with me on his back, jumped over a four-foot fence and down into a paddock filled with extremely sharp bushes, injuring both of us, and cutting the strap that holds his saddle securely onto his back. My position was fairly precarious.
Viking jumped another fence and ended up in the large paddock most of the older horses lived in. At this point, I was hanging onto his reins and his mane with one white-knuckled hand and the saddle horn with the other. Eventually, he began to slow down of his own accord--I managed to get a proper grip on the reins again and got him to angle back towards the arena, and to transition from a lunatic gallop to a slightly more controlled canter. Markhor had come the long way around on her horse, Mini, a Clydesdale of epic proportions, and came up on Viking's outside to stop him from deciding to peel off suddenly, and another instructor, Roo, had seen him bolt and had come down to open all the gates on the way up to the smaller, indoor arena.
I managed to get Viking to a fast trot before we entered the arena, then to a slightly shaky walk, then a halt. I released my death grip on the reins and shifted slightly in my seat, and then came clean off the horse--with the entire saddle still with me. That was about the time we realised that the girth was broken, and that both I and the horse probably needed some medical attention.
Viking got about five stitches. I got about thirty. Doesn't seem fair, really. I can't say I learned any particular lesson from this one, except for maybe Nylon Girths Are Crap, or possibly Skydiving Is Safe And Relaxing. All in all I feel quite short-changed. And I never did get to see that snake again.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
PSA #1
Just something short and ranty I need to get out somewhere. I have a feeling there will be a few of these.
If your husband is unemployed after quitting his last job in a fit of pique; if you are working two minimum wage jobs six days a week just so you can pay rent and feed your family; if your car has been broken for several months and desperately requires repairs because it's not safe for long-distance travel and your husband's line of work will require semi-regular long-distance travel; if you already have two cats and have a long history of dumping animals because you don't know how to train, handle, and/or socialise them... then it's quite possible that now is not the fucking time to bring two new, expensive, extremely high-maintenance animals into your household. Try having a stable income and enough disposable to repair your goddamn car first.
If you are unemployed after quitting your last job in a fit of pique; if your wife is working two minimum wage jobs six days a week just so you can pay rent and feed your family; if your car has been broken for several months and desperately requires repairs because it's not safe for long-distance travel and your line of work will require semi-regular long-distance travel; if you are resorting to selling ad space on your wife's special interest forum to avoid having the phone and modem cut off... then it's quite possible that you should stop arguing about seat belt laws with teenagers and get a fucking job. Swallow your goddamn pride and apply at McDonalds if you can't find something else.
The general message I'm getting form this notable pair is, "We're not moving out of the country that we obviously hate and despise, because it's perfect, and we're going to work and change it with our dead-end jobs and total lack of any tertiary or vocational education in the most competitive job market in our state." Please. For the love of everything holy. Do not be like these people.
Thank you.
If your husband is unemployed after quitting his last job in a fit of pique; if you are working two minimum wage jobs six days a week just so you can pay rent and feed your family; if your car has been broken for several months and desperately requires repairs because it's not safe for long-distance travel and your husband's line of work will require semi-regular long-distance travel; if you already have two cats and have a long history of dumping animals because you don't know how to train, handle, and/or socialise them... then it's quite possible that now is not the fucking time to bring two new, expensive, extremely high-maintenance animals into your household. Try having a stable income and enough disposable to repair your goddamn car first.
If you are unemployed after quitting your last job in a fit of pique; if your wife is working two minimum wage jobs six days a week just so you can pay rent and feed your family; if your car has been broken for several months and desperately requires repairs because it's not safe for long-distance travel and your line of work will require semi-regular long-distance travel; if you are resorting to selling ad space on your wife's special interest forum to avoid having the phone and modem cut off... then it's quite possible that you should stop arguing about seat belt laws with teenagers and get a fucking job. Swallow your goddamn pride and apply at McDonalds if you can't find something else.
The general message I'm getting form this notable pair is, "We're not moving out of the country that we obviously hate and despise, because it's perfect, and we're going to work and change it with our dead-end jobs and total lack of any tertiary or vocational education in the most competitive job market in our state." Please. For the love of everything holy. Do not be like these people.
Thank you.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Strangling Jesus
Before I start this story, I feel the need to explain something; I am a clutz. I am a huge clutz. I am a clutz to a degree of physical retardation, and there's a reason for that--a long time ago, there was an accident that caused me to lose most of the function in both my hands. Several years of intensive physical therapy later, I was able to do perform advanced tasks like handling cutlery, writing legibly, and typing for short periods. I'm better now (and type ridiculously fast, all things considered) but I still have some issues.
The primary problem seems to be that, while my hands are very strong from exercising them in therapy and from various parts of my jobs, I have absolutely no sense of the pressure I am exerting. This can cause various difficulties--for example, gripping the wheel too tight while I'm driving, causing me to veer sharply to one side whenever I do something like shoulder checking or changing gears. I also tend to break cheap pencils and biros very easily. The reverse is true, too--I have never met anyone who drops things as frequently as I do, because I simply can't tell when my grip is too loose.
For this reason, I tend to gravitate towards jobs where I don't need to handle anything delicate--working in a china shop, for instance, would be right out for me. Way back on the first post in this blog when I listed my previous employers, you may notice that not one of those positions calls for me to handle anything squishier than a cheeseburger. I am not going to be able to hurt a shovel, broom, leather strap, book, cardboard box, item of clothing, or sheaf of paper by squeezing it too hard, and none of those things are going to be utterly destroyed by my dropping it occasionally. Even if I did squash and/or drop a burger, it's wrapped in paper, and if you're buying greasy fast food, your expectations of its quality are probably not high in the first place. All of my employers have been aware of my limitations and usually aren't bothered by it.
The customers, however... well, put it this way. This is an actual conversation I had while I was working in a church. I was polishing one of several antique silver crucifixes at the time, and holding it extremely tightly. Let's refer to the church-goer as Spudface.
Spudface was right about one thing, though--poor motor skills are clearly a sign of demonic influence. How could I not have seen it before? It's all so obvious now!
The primary problem seems to be that, while my hands are very strong from exercising them in therapy and from various parts of my jobs, I have absolutely no sense of the pressure I am exerting. This can cause various difficulties--for example, gripping the wheel too tight while I'm driving, causing me to veer sharply to one side whenever I do something like shoulder checking or changing gears. I also tend to break cheap pencils and biros very easily. The reverse is true, too--I have never met anyone who drops things as frequently as I do, because I simply can't tell when my grip is too loose.
For this reason, I tend to gravitate towards jobs where I don't need to handle anything delicate--working in a china shop, for instance, would be right out for me. Way back on the first post in this blog when I listed my previous employers, you may notice that not one of those positions calls for me to handle anything squishier than a cheeseburger. I am not going to be able to hurt a shovel, broom, leather strap, book, cardboard box, item of clothing, or sheaf of paper by squeezing it too hard, and none of those things are going to be utterly destroyed by my dropping it occasionally. Even if I did squash and/or drop a burger, it's wrapped in paper, and if you're buying greasy fast food, your expectations of its quality are probably not high in the first place. All of my employers have been aware of my limitations and usually aren't bothered by it.
The customers, however... well, put it this way. This is an actual conversation I had while I was working in a church. I was polishing one of several antique silver crucifixes at the time, and holding it extremely tightly. Let's refer to the church-goer as Spudface.
Spudface: OH MY GOD.Y'know, I still have no idea what that was about. And Spudface was relatively harmless. The really scary fundie attack? That came much later and involved people armed with hockey sticks. The only other time I was ever hassled by a religious zealot, it was far more comical, at least to me.
Me: ...can I help you?
Spudface: You are STRANGLING JESUS.
Me: Y'know, I'm really not sure how to respond to that...
Spudface: What the hell is WRONG with you? LET GO OF HIM.
(Spudface attempts to wrench the Silvo-covered crucifix from my hands. Due to the combination of my ridiculously tight grip and the very slippery metal polish, she fails. She tries again.)
Me: That isn't going to work.
Spudface: YOU'RE THE DEVIL!
Me: ... Okay, wha--
Spudface: YOU POSSESSED MY HANDS! YOU STRANGLED JESUS! YOU'RE BEELZEBUB!
Me: Lady, if I was the fucking devil, do you really think I'd spend my time cleaning a church?
Spudface: ...Oh.
(Spudface wanders off.)
Spudface was right about one thing, though--poor motor skills are clearly a sign of demonic influence. How could I not have seen it before? It's all so obvious now!
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