R is for Rated R

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Tweet

Q is for Questions I Hate Being Asked

As you might imagine based on my job as a cashier, I talk to lots of complete strangers on a daily basis.  This is unfortunate, because most people respond to meeting a new person by making small talk, and making small talk is the most painful act that can be committed with the English language.  (I don't know about other languages.  Maybe small talk is more eloquent and engaging in, say, Welsh or Greek.)

I wish people would ask each other original, thought-provoking questions when they first meet, such as, "Do you think a pterodactyl would win in a fight with an eagle?" or "Do you have a survival strategy in case of a zombie apocalypse?"  But no.  Small talk consists of repeating the same dull questions with everyone you meet.

Apparently, when someone sees a girl who appears to be between the ages of 18 and 42, the first thing they ask is, "Are you in school?"  I used to naively long for the day when I could proudly announce, "I graduated!"  But the conversation that follows is even worse now.  I immediately get a sympathetic look that roughly translates as, Oh, and you're still working as a cashier.  Probably wondering what horrible decision I made to bring such a fate upon myself, they now ask, "What did you major in?"

I resist the urge to crawl underneath the sales counter, unfold one of the largest paper bags, and shove it over my face, before finally answering, "crtv wrtng," hoping that if I say it really fast they won't realize I said "creative writing" and will instead assume I said "nuclear engineering" or "theoretical physics."

But they do understand my garbled response, and now a look of dawning comprehension crosses their face.

"And what do you plan to do with that?" they asked smugly, the same way you might catch a thirteen-year-old sneaking into an R-rated movie and say, "And where do you think you're going?"

I've tried every possible response to this question.  I've tried telling the truth and saying I write a blog.  They never know what a blog is, and when I try to explain the crude collection of sentences and occasionally-disturbing drawings that is this blog, their eyes just fill with even more pity.  I've tried saying I'm working on a novel, assuming "novel" is a more palatable word than "blog," but then they ask, "What's it about?" and I'm stuck trying to explain the definition of "dystopia" to a middle-aged man who has never heard of Ray Bradbury.

It doesn't matter what I say.  They aren't asking the question because they want an honest answer; the question is their way of saying, "I disapprove of your life choices and you should regret them."  Nothing I can ever say will satisfy them.  Except maybe this.

Then there are the people who assume that because I studied literature in college (creative writing was a concentration within the literature major), I can identify, from memory, every poem ever written.  They start rattling off some obscure poem that made an impression upon them during the one literature class they took their freshman year of college, as though the fact that they know a few lines from this one poem will make me exclaim, "Finally, someone I can talk to!  All these years, I've been waiting for a genius such as yourself to show up and quote some Keats to me!"

As much as I hate small talk, some of the worst questions come from people I actually know.  My close friends and family know I hate being asked how my writing is going, but plenty of well-meaning acquaintances innocently believe I'll feel special and appreciated if they ask, "How's your book going?" or more sadistically, "Is your book finished yet?"  That's all fine, until they act completely shocked to discover I still haven't finished writing my entire novel in the three weeks since we last spoke.

Some people go so far as to ask if they can read my unfinished manuscript.  That would be like me showing you guys a bunch of half-finished drawings and swearing they'll make sense eventually.

Actually, trying to read someone's unfinished manuscript would be even worse than that, because that was surprisingly fun.

This is why I want to spend the rest of my days in a blanket fort drawing cartoons and writing about how much I hate people.

Tweet

P is for People You Encounter in Retail

When I worked at the Big Fancy Resort, I interacted with a wide array of people, most of whom clearly had personality disorders and deeply ingrained emotional issues.  Many of them were literal embodiments of stereotypes that I previously didn't believe existed in real, flesh-and-blood life.  Here is a nifty guide for properly identifying some of the common people you will encounter in a place such as the Big Fancy Resort, and what to expect from them.

Tacky Rich Lady

Identifying Features:  Despite having all the advantages a rich husband and/or divorce settlement can buy, still manages to look like a train wreck.  Never met an animal print she didn't like.  Sequins are the staple of her wardrobe.  Gravitates toward the hideous items you thought were never going to sell.  Tries on everything in the store five times in front of the mirror because of crippling self-doubt.  Perpetually annoyed facial expression.

Frequently Asked Questions:  Does this look good on me?  Is this on sale?

Enjoys:  Dieting; tanning salons; amassing credit card debt.

Hates:  Animal cruelty; earth tones.

Embittered Career Woman

Identifying Features:  Spent years clawing and backstabbing her way to the top only to discover that she still hates herself.  Hasn't slept more than four consecutive hours in over a decade. 

Frequently Asked Questions:  Winners don't ask questions.  Winners make demands.

Enjoys:  Berating service personnel; waiting for her Botox to kick in; finding new ways to deprive her ex-husband of joy.

Hates:  Laughter; youth.

GIRLS NIGHT!

Identifying Features:  Raucous and full of margaritas, these ladies will ransack your store in a matter of minutes.  The moment one of them asks you a question, her friend will interrupt because she found something SO CUTE.  As soon as you finish ringing up one of their purchases, the others will convince her to exchange one of the items for something completely different.

Frequently Asked Questions:  Are you sure you don't have four more of these in the back somewhere?  Are you sure you handed my credit card back to me?  It's okay if we have our drinks in here, right?

Enjoy:  Mani-pedis; chocolate; "retail therapy"; giggling; backhanded compliments.

Hate:  Exes; their children (secretly).

Confused Tourists

Identifying Features:  Wandered here after being told they "HAD to see the Big Fancy Resort" before they left Asheville.  Have been trying to find the bathroom for three hours.  Cannot grasp why everything is so expensive.  Endlessly fascinated by every "fancy" detail.

Frequently Asked Questions:  Why is everything so expensive?  Can we tour the spa?

Enjoy:  Free parking; buffet-style dining; air conditioning.

Hate:  Walking; standing in the sun for any length of time; all these kids walking around with weird haircuts.

Emasculated Husband

Identifying Features:  Sends you an apologetic glance after his wife throws a tantrum in your store, but for the most part, all traces of personality withered away long ago.  Now spends his days trudging doggedly under the weight of purses and shopping bags, only vaguely aware of his surroundings. 

Frequently Asked Questions:  Can I get that on the rocks?

Enjoys:  Days when his wife needs some "girl time"; imagining the sweet release of death.

Hates:  Opening his credit card bills; waking up in the morning.

Persnickety Older Man

Identifying Features:  Rare but to be dreaded, this man rivals even the bitchiest of women.  Specifically wants mauve pants.  Longs to return to a simpler time when sales clerks would shine his shoes for a nickel.

Frequently Asked Questions:  Why does everything in here have your logo on it?  Why would I want to wear your logo?  Don't you know of any places in town that have mauve pants?  Isn't that your job?

Enjoys:  Mani-pedis; scoffing; freshly ironed chinos.

Hates:  The riffraff this resort is letting in these days; open-toed shoes.

~*~

I hope this has been educational and informative.  And remember, if you were particularly offended by one of the portraits, that just means you are that person. 

Tweet

O is for Only Child

People are always surprised to learn I'm an only child.  "Didn't you wish you had siblings growing up?" they ask. 

I never did.  I went through a phase, around age five, when I constantly wished my best friend, Sarah, could be adopted as my sister, but that was less a wish for an actual sibling and more a desire to have a sleepover every night.

Maybe some people would have been lonely or bored growing up without siblings, but I was far too busy playing with my vast collection of toys, sleeping in my enormous bedroom, bathing in my private bathroom, and domineering my parents' undivided attention to really notice.  I was not just my parents' only child, but my maternal grandparents' only grandchild as well.  I was received like a messiah of innocence and joy.

I've only encountered one aspect of adulthood for which being an only child left me wholly unprepared.

Board games.

When you're an only child, you mostly play board games with your courteous, respectful parents.  When you have siblings, board games are a cutthroat competition for dominance and your parents' love, a desperate attempt to defend your fragile sense of self-worth, fraught with gloating and betrayal.

The first time I played a board game with Hubs, who grew up with an older brother, I was nearly reduced to tears.

You could say that I lack the healthy sense of competition and ability to cope with failure that are fostered by childhood sibling rivalries.  You could say that the survival skills taught by sibling relationships prove an invaluable tool throughout adulthood.

Yet somehow, through brazen self-assurance and sheer stubbornness, I have an uncanny ability to negotiate a solution in even the toughest situations.

This is how we play board games in our house now.

Tweet

N is for Notes I Write to Myself that Don't Make Any Sense Later

I keep a tiny notebook where I jot down ideas for future blog posts.  Apparently I need to include more explanation when writing these notes, because when I flip through the notebook, looking for inspiration, I instead find bizarre, hastily-dashed observations that make me question my own sanity.

For example, at some point I took a moment to scribble, "It's hard to write a blog when you're a velociraptor."  I have no idea what prompted that, although upon reflection, a velociraptor probably would find blogging difficult.

On another occasion, I noted, "I almost bought a bag of marshmallows because it was lying on the floor and I felt sorry for it."  That is exactly the sort of thing I would do, but I can't imagine how I intended to turn that into a full-fledged blog post.

I also found a tiny, rough sketch of myself, holding a fist aloft and exclaiming, "CURSE YOU AND YOUR INFALLIBLE LOGIC."  What infallible logic was I cursing?  It will remain forever a mystery.  But I drew it anyway.

From now on, I'll make my notes more clear so that you don't miss out on any more of these obviously brilliant ideas.

Tweet

M is for Marbles

Each time Meemaw and Pappaw visited us--which was often, since they lived ten minutes away--Pappaw brought me a palm-sized bag of marbles, wrapped in stretchy plastic netting.  Together, we poured each bag into a large, clear glass jug.  I watched them trickle over the other marbles, clinking against the glass.  When we moved, the weight of the nearly-full jug had left permanent indentations in the living room carpet.

It was July 1999, just after my eleventh birthday.  We packed all our belongings into a lumbering yellow rental truck and made a six-hour trek from the white sand beaches of the Gulf Coast to the gentle plateaus of the Appalachian foothills.  We arrived at our new rental house late in the afternoon, already exhausted before we even began the task of unloading the truck.  We were elated when two neighbors walked over and offered to help.

We gathered around the truck.  Someone lowered the metal ramp and lifted the door with a deep rumble like thunder. 

And with a gentle, steady hiss, like an enormous wave washing over us, hundreds of marbles poured over the ramp, bouncing onto the gravel driveway.  We stood in silence as they collected at our feet.  Each time all the marbles seemed to finally trickle out of the truck, a new tide would swell from the dark recesses of boxes and furniture and gush across the ramp.

When we moved out of the rental house eight months later, we were still finding marbles embedded in the gravel, sometimes whole, sometimes crushed, the occasional glinting reminder of those years spent pouring tiny bags of marbles into a jug.

Tweet

L is for Lizzie

I had been working in the gift shops at the Big Fancy Resort for a year when Lizzie was hired.

Lizzie was about my age.  She had long, straight hair that she occasionally wore in a side braid.  She lived in Montford with some roommates.  Every day she brought bizarre snacks related to her detox cleanse.  One day it was a quart of water, lemon juice, and ginger.  Another day she had a plastic container of cashews submerged in water.  She explained the medicinal purposes of these snacks in her signature slow monotone.

None of the gift shop clerks were quite sure what to think of Lizzie.

Lizzie counted her cash drawer twice at the beginning of each shift and twice again at the end.  On the night shift, she would leave rambling, urgent-sounding notes for the morning clerk to find.  Sometimes the clerks read these to each other for entertainment purposes.

A woman was here looking for a gift for her boss's daughter's best friend.  She was so nice.  We talked for a long time.  Her favorite food is watermelon!  She did not find a gift.  I really hope she finds one.  If she comes back, show her the journals because I totally forgot to show her those and she might have liked them.  Tell her I said hi.  I hope you have an excellent day! 

Lizzie once left a co-worker a five-minute-long voicemail thanking her for swapping shifts and elaborating upon what a kind deed that was.  Another co-worker found her meticulously lining the sales counter with dozens of perfectly measured squares of tape.

The Big Fancy Resort was not exactly known for its amiable clientele.  A typical customer would not even let you say, "Hi, how are y--" before barking "JUST LOOKING" and proceeding to not make eye contact with you ever.  Others would ask for help finding some vague item--a popular request was, "I need the perfect gift for this person I don't know anything about at all"--and then dismiss all your suggestions with an exasperated, "No, not that."  At the other extreme, some people would bring you the most generic item possible--a cheap scarf made in China, a ring imbedded with oversized plastic rhinestones, a nightlight shaped like a daisy--and say, "Tell me more about this," as though expecting a touching backstory involving an underprivileged Cambodian orphan who overcame the odds and started her own rhinestone factory using only organic, sustainable materials.

These people were spoiled, cranky, demanding, entitled, and petulant.  And they loved Lizzie.

They loved her because she would launch into a ten-minute speech praising anything they displayed even the slightest interest in.  She would extoll the most trivial item as though it contained hidden wonders.  She was oblivious to curt tones and rude remarks. 

One day I walked in to find Lizzie brandishing her plastic container of cashews and water in front of two customers, who were listening raptly.

The managers were thrilled with all the positive comments guests left about her.  We had so much fun talking to Lizzie!  Lizzie was so helpful!  Lizzie was extremely knowledgeable!

Lizzie and I bonded unexpectedly one baumy night in early autumn.  We closed one of the stores together, and just as we were ready to leave, we noticed a moth fluttering around one of the lights.

I looked up at the moth, batting its dusty wings against the imitation Craftsman light fixture.  It had drifted into this place on an ill-fated air current, and now it would be trapped here until it shriveled into a dry husk and died.

I helped Lizzie pursue the moth around the empty store until she finally caught it.  She carried it downstairs to the employee entrance, cupped between her hands, and I opened the door so she could release it into the night.  We watched it beat a jagged path through the heavy air until it disappeared in the buzzing orange glow of a streetlight.

Not long after that, Lizzie left the key to her cash drawer lying unattended in the break room and got fired.  I envied her.  She was set free, like the moth.

Tweet