homespun

12-21-99

I snuck out of work around 3:15 yesterday. Technically, I didn't sneak, but I was a little crafty. Sneaky. Aida went to drive her daughters home and I chose that moment to ask the doctor if he needed anything else of me. I knew he'd say no.

Aida also would have said no, but she would have said, "See you tomorrow!" Then she would have realized that "tomorrow" is my day off, and that, being so close to Christmas and all, she wants to take my days off away from me. I knew the exact progression of her thoughts, so I avoided her all day, then snuck out when her back was turned. Proceeded to ignore the ringing phone all night.

Aida didn't actually call me until this morning. I'd been planning to ignore the phone all day, but I did pick it up to call my mom around 10:30 am. When I got off and checked the voice mail, well, you can guess who'd left a message. This presented an interesting dilemma: I couldn't just say I was out all day, because she got the "We're on the phone!" outgoing message. I did the only thing I could think of to avoid a squidgy situation: I logged on the net. Left the modem running for several hours while I baked a batch of horrid cookies and lay about the house. When John came home, we worked out the plan for him to anwer if Aida should call again, and tell her some story or another.

Anyone who knows me knows that the absolute worst thing an employer can do is call me on my day off. Dates back to the JCPenney days, when my manager would call me in early because she was bored and wanted someone to hang around with her. Then, working in the grocery stores, well, this time of year is especially bad for extra help. At one store, cashiers started calling in at 8 in the morning. When the manager got there at ten, she'd go down the list of her department, calling people in early, or begging them to come in on their day off. I cannot tolerate being bothered on my day off.

Aida effectively wrecked my day off, though she didn't get me to come in. I spent all day feeling alternately guilty and self-righteous. And then bitter because I'm actually feeling guilty. Every second that I start to feel guilty, I remind myself that I'm about to begin the worst six days of this job so far, and that Sherrie has five of these six days off. Off! Sure, I get two days off next week. That makes, what, five days TOTAL that I've had off since I started this job. Over a month ago.

I'm not bitter about the days themselves, I was told going in that I'd be working holidays, lots of hours on holidays. What irks me is losing my pre-determined days off. Not only do the others get the holidays off, but they also get their regular days off. I have to work all weekend, PLUS I have to work two weeks straight.

Well, not this time. Today I didn't set foot in The Land of Dog Smell. Granted, I've been in a shitty-guilty mood all day. But, dammit, I made everyone else miserable, too.

It started even before Aida called. John got up at 6 and let Julia outside, then he came back to bed. I woke up the teensiest bit then, enough to realize that I really had to pee. I did that thing where you think, "Oh, it's not so bad, I think I can go back to sleep...." But then I only drifted in and out for a while, thinking about peeing and not wanting to get up. I finally did get up at 7:30, peed came back to bed. Five minutes later I heard Julia scratching the screen door like she does when she wants to come in. I dragged myself out of bed again, and there was no way I was getting back to sleep.

I snuggled in bed for a while, then got up. Julia and Fleck were yowling and thumping in a Major Jungle War that spread through the entire house. I watched, fascinated, as my seventeen-pound cat and my five-pound cat settled their differences. After thirty minutes of rolling, kicking, and claw-free scratching, Julia backed Fleck into a corner and stood, panting for breath. Fleck stared at her in what seemed like horror but turned out to be derision, and swatted a tiny paw at Julia's broad nose.

Just then John walked out of the bedroom. Fleck lunged at Julie, John said, "I guess they've decided to have it out, then?" and Julie buried Fleck in a mound of tiger-striped fur.

Those horrid cookies. I started out today to make gingerbread men. First problem: always buy a gingerbread man cookie cutter in the off-season. After searching at three different stores, I decided it wouldn't be so bad to make gingerbread bells and stars and trees. We can still decorate them, right?

Right. I've never made gingerbread cookies before. The dough is so sticky that it stuck to the counter when I rolled it, and I had to stretch the little trees all out of whack when I peeled them up. I put down a lot of flour, but that made the dough tough. I got the hang of it after a few trays, but some of the cookies came out hard and flat, like shale, and the rest are sort of puffy and, well, gummy.

John came home and helped me frost them. A few were lost because I failed to read the package on my colored gel tubes: they weren't cavity-inducing, sugary-pasty decorator gels, they were tubes of freaking food coloring. Later I used the green food coloring to turn our cream cheese frosting a bright, plastic green to frost our little rockhard Christmas trees.

I feel a little shame in sending a dozen of these cookies to work with John tomorrow. He doesn't know yet, since the Atkins diet expressly prohibits cookies with any taste whatsoever. Some of them are okay, but under the frosting it's difficult to tell which ones are hard and which are not. And none of them really taste all that good. I have a good reputation at the squadron, with my Rice Krispie Treats, monster cookies and nut horns, and now I'll spoil it with my Frosted Shale Bits. Maybe they'll forgive me when my pierogi turn out wonderfully....

I spent way too much money on cheap toys this morning. I heard on the news that the Houston County toy donation boxes are not filling up this year. If we don't hurry and donate new toys, over 300 kids will not have presents this weekend. I'm a sucker when it comes to kids and their Christmas presents. I meant to spend $20 at Walmart for the toys, but ended up spending closer to $30. I bought Hot Wheels cars, WCW action figures, make-up kits, yo-yos, Play Doh, beanie dolls, all the least expensive things I could find. Not because I'm cheap, mind you, but so that I could buy as many toys as possible; so lots of kids would be taken care of with smaller toys instead of one kid getting a big box of Legos. I felt bad about spending so much money that we really don't have, but when I quietly told John, he assured me that I am a very good person.

I believe it somehow touches on the "story" my mother told me, only once. I really shouldn't write this here, probably, but this is my journal. My mother grew up on a farm in Indiana, the oldest of five kids. It was a tiny farm, and at that time there wasn't too much money—anywhere—and her family had none of it. One year for Christmas, there were no presents. My grandmother warned all of her kids repeatedly ahead of time: No Presents. No Money. Nothing.

The kids didn't quite believe it, but on Christmas morning there really were no presents. They understood that there was no money and didn't want their mother to feel worse, so they stayed outside playing for most of the morning. While they played, a dog wandered up the drive from the highway. It was a well-trained, well-groomed dog, obviously someone's lost pet. The kids played with the dog for hours.

Finally, a car pulled up into the drive and a man got out. Of course, he was looking for his beautiful lost dog. When he saw all these little kids having a blast with his dog, he gave my grandmother twenty dollars for taking care of the dog until he found it. Split between all the kids, they had enough money for any presents they wanted (it was the fifties) and some left over.

Here I am bitching about working on Christmas Eve for time-and-a-half.