As I feared, my cousin decided to move all of his stuff out of the apartment. He came on Sunday and pretty much cleaned the place out. My typing is making an echoey sound as I write this. My parents came in the same day to bring me a few essentials to get me through the next two weeks. It was kind of like Christmas receiving a bunch of furniture and appliances donated by a slew of relatives eager to get rid of their old junk.
First I opened a set of dishes, untouched since my uncle packed them neatly into a box when he moved out of his first apartment in 1962. All the plates have metal on them, being from the pre-microwave era, so I have to remember not to put them in the microwave, which isn't hard because I don't have one anymore. In the bottom of the box of dishes, there was a decorative iron and ceramic coaster that says "Maine: The Pine Tree State" and has a map and pictures of Maine landmarks. It's one tacky piece of crap but I felt bad separating it from the rest of the kitchenware so I hung it on the nail above my sink where the clock used to be. It may just be me being overly sentimental, but I think the dishes are happy to be back in action after a 44 year dry spell.
I also got a new bed, straight from my sister's room. It's really awesome if you like big wooden headboards covered with animal stickers (I don't.) Its looks aside, I was happy to have any bed at all. After a long day of moving stuff, I hopped into it. Unfortunately, it couldn't support my tremendous weight. The box spring slid off the frame and it and the mattress crashed to the floor.
The itchy green couch is no longer here. It got dragged out the door and tossed in the dumpster out back. It's true that it smelled funny and there was a big hole in it, but as I sat watching tv last night in a lawn chair, I was tempted to go see if it was still out there. The slightly moldy lawn chair was not the only thing that made my tv-watching experience less than satisfying. Let's just say I can be thankful that the tv is fairly light and has a handle on the top because CTV will only come in on the north side of the room and if I want to watch Global I have to move the tv to the far south side of the room. Luckily there's never anything good on CBC because I can probably only get that in the bathroom.
My aunt contributed a set of lamps labeled with the names of dead people. She scored these from the nursing home after some of my grandmother's neighbors checked out.
I would describe the decor as creepy minimalist retro.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Walmart is da bomb!
My mother sent me a newspaper clipping about a Walmart store in Quebec that evacuated all the customers after a bomb threat was called in but had the employees stay to look for suspicious packages. The article said that several of the employees found the experience traumatic. I think I would find it relaxing. Being in a potentially life threatening situation would be a fair trade off for an hour or so of peace from the customers, their unruly children, stupid questions and unreasonable requests.
"I'm going to Sobeys" is now code for "I'm quitting" in our Walmart fashion department. That's the last thing our co-worker Dominic* said as he left for his 15 minute break. We never saw him again. The manager didn't believe us when we told him and seemed more concerned that the remaining 4 of us weren't working hard enough. Dominic's sudden departure made a lot more work for me, but I salute him and his final fuck you to Walmart. It warms my heart to know that I work in a place where if you mysteriously disappear during your coffee break everyone just assumes you quit. God forbid you should be lying bloody and beaten in a ditch somewhere.
Due to our depleted workforce, the store was in a disasterous state when I went into work on Sunday. I knew the manager would ask me to stay longer so I made a point of staying out of his way. With 15 minutes left of my shift, I heard the jingling of his keys so I ducked into a more obstructed aisle and hid behind a table. I did this very quietly, having just removed my shoes figuring I may have to make a stealthy escape. He paused near where I was hiding as if he sensed my presence but there's no way he could have seen me. He continued on his way and it took me a minute or two to realize that my shoes were gone and that he had taken them. Fortunately I found them soon after in the shoe department. It is possible that he didn't notice that they were expensive Clarks of England shoes, the likes of which we don't sell at a shithole like Walmart or more obviously, that they were worn. Or he may just be messing with me, in which case I'm extremely embarrassed.
I continue to be unimpressed with the heartiness of my colleagues. Those who don't quit are always leaving early with mystery ailments. Yesterday Leanne* who I work with put on a terrific show for the manager with real tears and complaints of nauseousness. So that big whiner got to go home. As soon as she left, I began feeling sick myself. An hour later I was certain I was deathly ill. I bought a thermometer during my lunch break. I figured my temperature would be about 102, maybe even 103. It was 98.1. How disappointing! Having no hard evidence that I was sick and lacking the acting skills of Miss Crybaby McGoHome, I felt obligated to stay. There's probably some horrible fungus poisoning us all. A lawsuit might be the only way to get decent money out of Walmart.
I haven't done anything fun in almost a week. Luckily I got an email indicating this weekend holds promise. Can't wait!
*All names have been changed to protect the losers who work at Walmart.
"I'm going to Sobeys" is now code for "I'm quitting" in our Walmart fashion department. That's the last thing our co-worker Dominic* said as he left for his 15 minute break. We never saw him again. The manager didn't believe us when we told him and seemed more concerned that the remaining 4 of us weren't working hard enough. Dominic's sudden departure made a lot more work for me, but I salute him and his final fuck you to Walmart. It warms my heart to know that I work in a place where if you mysteriously disappear during your coffee break everyone just assumes you quit. God forbid you should be lying bloody and beaten in a ditch somewhere.
Due to our depleted workforce, the store was in a disasterous state when I went into work on Sunday. I knew the manager would ask me to stay longer so I made a point of staying out of his way. With 15 minutes left of my shift, I heard the jingling of his keys so I ducked into a more obstructed aisle and hid behind a table. I did this very quietly, having just removed my shoes figuring I may have to make a stealthy escape. He paused near where I was hiding as if he sensed my presence but there's no way he could have seen me. He continued on his way and it took me a minute or two to realize that my shoes were gone and that he had taken them. Fortunately I found them soon after in the shoe department. It is possible that he didn't notice that they were expensive Clarks of England shoes, the likes of which we don't sell at a shithole like Walmart or more obviously, that they were worn. Or he may just be messing with me, in which case I'm extremely embarrassed.
I continue to be unimpressed with the heartiness of my colleagues. Those who don't quit are always leaving early with mystery ailments. Yesterday Leanne* who I work with put on a terrific show for the manager with real tears and complaints of nauseousness. So that big whiner got to go home. As soon as she left, I began feeling sick myself. An hour later I was certain I was deathly ill. I bought a thermometer during my lunch break. I figured my temperature would be about 102, maybe even 103. It was 98.1. How disappointing! Having no hard evidence that I was sick and lacking the acting skills of Miss Crybaby McGoHome, I felt obligated to stay. There's probably some horrible fungus poisoning us all. A lawsuit might be the only way to get decent money out of Walmart.
I haven't done anything fun in almost a week. Luckily I got an email indicating this weekend holds promise. Can't wait!
*All names have been changed to protect the losers who work at Walmart.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
I hate moving
I'm just waiting for the word from my new landlords saying I can move into my new place. I fear it won't be until August 31, by which time my cousin will have come and collected all of his belongings from my current subletted apartment. And unfortunately pretty much everything here belongs to him, including the bed, TV and all the dishes. The end of August could be an interesting time for me. I envision myself sitting on the floor in this empty room with nothing but my computer. Maybe my blog will get updated more often.
My new place is on Novalea Drive, deep in the north end. It's a one bedroom basement apartment in the home of a newly married couple who seem nice enough, but you never know who's going to turn out to be a creepy pervert. After seeing that Oprah special report on surveillance, I'll be sure to check the place for hidden cameras, just in case. My parents came into the city last week to help me find a place. My father decided we should drive around the vicinity of the NSCC campus looking for places to rent. Mom said people aren't going to see us driving around and run out offering to rent us apartments. But Dad got the last laugh because that's exactly what happened. We saw a For Rent sign and Dad went to check it out but before he even got to the door, the guy in the next house over popped his head out the door and said "Are you guys looking to rent a one bedroom apartment?" I liked it so that's where I'll be for the next year.
My aunt, cousin and her boyfriend came to visit Thursday. We had a great day wandering around Halifax. There was a brief moment of panic when a hornet flew into my cousin's shirt and she proceded to run around flashing all vehicular and pedestrian traffic on Spring Garden Road. The situation was not made better when her boyfriend hit her in an attempt to kill the bug but only succeeded in making the incident into a Jerry Springer style spectacle with running, screaming, nudity and a physical assault. Her mother told her that was what you got when you wore such low cut tops.
Then it was on to Buskerfest at the waterfront where we saw an impressive Xtreme martial arts show by Team Ryouko from Toronto. They did some very cool kicks and flips that made me ashamed that I can't even do a summersault without hurting myself. We also caught a performance by Bike Boy, an Australian guy who managed to turn a five minute stunt into a 45 minute show. I guess that's what Buskers do though. Some people seemed a bit put off by his dark sense of humor and one mother frowned when he threatened to burn some of the children with his fire baton. But he had most of the audience hooked with promises of a spectacular final stunt, interrupting his innuendo laced monologue only to directly insult the unfortunate "volunteers" he pulled from the crowd. But I'll give props to anyone who can juggle a chainsaw, a knife and a flaming stick while standing on a bike balanced on top of a 22 foot pole.
My new place is on Novalea Drive, deep in the north end. It's a one bedroom basement apartment in the home of a newly married couple who seem nice enough, but you never know who's going to turn out to be a creepy pervert. After seeing that Oprah special report on surveillance, I'll be sure to check the place for hidden cameras, just in case. My parents came into the city last week to help me find a place. My father decided we should drive around the vicinity of the NSCC campus looking for places to rent. Mom said people aren't going to see us driving around and run out offering to rent us apartments. But Dad got the last laugh because that's exactly what happened. We saw a For Rent sign and Dad went to check it out but before he even got to the door, the guy in the next house over popped his head out the door and said "Are you guys looking to rent a one bedroom apartment?" I liked it so that's where I'll be for the next year.
My aunt, cousin and her boyfriend came to visit Thursday. We had a great day wandering around Halifax. There was a brief moment of panic when a hornet flew into my cousin's shirt and she proceded to run around flashing all vehicular and pedestrian traffic on Spring Garden Road. The situation was not made better when her boyfriend hit her in an attempt to kill the bug but only succeeded in making the incident into a Jerry Springer style spectacle with running, screaming, nudity and a physical assault. Her mother told her that was what you got when you wore such low cut tops.
Then it was on to Buskerfest at the waterfront where we saw an impressive Xtreme martial arts show by Team Ryouko from Toronto. They did some very cool kicks and flips that made me ashamed that I can't even do a summersault without hurting myself. We also caught a performance by Bike Boy, an Australian guy who managed to turn a five minute stunt into a 45 minute show. I guess that's what Buskers do though. Some people seemed a bit put off by his dark sense of humor and one mother frowned when he threatened to burn some of the children with his fire baton. But he had most of the audience hooked with promises of a spectacular final stunt, interrupting his innuendo laced monologue only to directly insult the unfortunate "volunteers" he pulled from the crowd. But I'll give props to anyone who can juggle a chainsaw, a knife and a flaming stick while standing on a bike balanced on top of a 22 foot pole.
Friday, August 04, 2006
NSCC and me
I've been accepted into the Library and Information Technology program at NSCC. I'm not too sure how I feel about it yet. I may be doing it for all the wrong reasons, but that doesn't mean it won't turn out well. Basically, I'm alleviating the stress of paying back my student loan by getting another one. I don't know what kind of people sign up for this course but there's a possibility that for the first time in my life, I'll be one of the coolest kids in my class.
Work is mind numbingly boring these days. I spent 45 minutes the other day sitting on the floor repackaging underwear. Although I must say that working in the lingerie department was a welcome change from the frantic pace at the ladies fitting room. If I have to tell one more woman she doesn't look fat in a bathing suit, I'm going to lose it. I don't know why they're asking me anyway. I wouldn't ask a stranger in Wal-Mart how I looked in a swim suit. And I'm a terrible liar too. I've tried to come up with a handful of vague but encouraging responses that I can use in most situations. People who look good, know they look good. If you have to ask, you probably don't.
The men's fitting room is much less hectic and men are much more docile shoppers than women in general, but you will get the occasional pervert asking you to measure his inseam. So right now I'm happy to be assigned to the lingerie department. I invented a game to help make putting boxed bras away fun. It's called "Guilty" and works like this: I take a quick glance at the model on the bra box that I need to return to the shelf and pretend that she's commited a crime(because so many crimes are commited by smiling women wearing only bras). Then I go through the aisles of boxed bras as if they were a police line-up and try to identify the suspect. This process takes a long time and makes my very simple job a bit harder. But unfortunately, the game is getting easier and less fun now because they've all become so familiar to me. I feel like I know them. I've named some of them. I might be going crazy. I think I'll let the madness take me. It'll be easier that way.
I tried carrying snacks around in my vest as tasty entertainment and to keep my morale up but fruit flies kept following me. I hate my job.
Work is mind numbingly boring these days. I spent 45 minutes the other day sitting on the floor repackaging underwear. Although I must say that working in the lingerie department was a welcome change from the frantic pace at the ladies fitting room. If I have to tell one more woman she doesn't look fat in a bathing suit, I'm going to lose it. I don't know why they're asking me anyway. I wouldn't ask a stranger in Wal-Mart how I looked in a swim suit. And I'm a terrible liar too. I've tried to come up with a handful of vague but encouraging responses that I can use in most situations. People who look good, know they look good. If you have to ask, you probably don't.
The men's fitting room is much less hectic and men are much more docile shoppers than women in general, but you will get the occasional pervert asking you to measure his inseam. So right now I'm happy to be assigned to the lingerie department. I invented a game to help make putting boxed bras away fun. It's called "Guilty" and works like this: I take a quick glance at the model on the bra box that I need to return to the shelf and pretend that she's commited a crime(because so many crimes are commited by smiling women wearing only bras). Then I go through the aisles of boxed bras as if they were a police line-up and try to identify the suspect. This process takes a long time and makes my very simple job a bit harder. But unfortunately, the game is getting easier and less fun now because they've all become so familiar to me. I feel like I know them. I've named some of them. I might be going crazy. I think I'll let the madness take me. It'll be easier that way.
I tried carrying snacks around in my vest as tasty entertainment and to keep my morale up but fruit flies kept following me. I hate my job.
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