The fun continues

Oh what a happy day for the ladies of Walmart's fashion department! Our 8.3% increase in swimsuit sales this season has earned us a group reward of $350 (one dollar for every white lie we had to tell pasty, bulging bikini-clad customers) to be spent on a night out of dining and camaraderie. If I know my boss Donna (and I do), she will use the money to take her friends out to dinner and then post photos on Facebook. About a month later, she will bring it up and try to convince us we were all there and act surprised when we say we weren't. Then she will tag strangers in the background of her photos with our names. In between her daily bursts of crazy, I've noticed she's been acting friendly towards me, telling me things about her life. I try to discourage these one-sided sharing sessions. Knowing these personal tidbits interferes with my hating her. Without my rage, I may die of boredom.

We have yet another new herd of associates in ladies wear. Our turn-over rate is understandably high. This latest bunch is even dumber and more apathetic than the last. Normally we take bets on how long it will take before their spirit is broken, but these girls started out with dead, empty eyes. The only one with any sense was crying by her second day. She broke down when someone got mad at her when she accidentally opened their dressing room door while they were changing. If I had a dollar for every startled, half-dressed woman I've walked in on, I could retire. One of the other new girls asked me what a blouse was. You see what I have to work with?

The poor quality of the workers doesn't surprise me. Everyone who applies for a job here has to fill in a questionnaire designed to weed out anyone capable of independent thought. I passed with flying colors, although if I remember correctly, they did identify some "red flags" in my answers that I was asked to explain. I just told them the questions confused me and I had trouble understanding them. This pleased them very much and I was asked when I could start.

To deal with the stress of babysitting these junior achievers, I have been taking lots of extra breaks. They're too dumb to notice I'm gone. I take these breaks outside with the smokers who are consistently more fun than the non-smokers. I also prefer the outside now because the staff break room has been compromised. About a month ago, in an effort to improve employee morale, it was announced that our employee lounge would undergo a makeover. We were to vote on the colors we would like to see it painted. The poll failed to generate much enthusiasm and only a couple of people voted. To teach us a lesson about workplace spirit, the higher-ups ignored the vote and painted the room with cans of mistint from the hardware department. There were lots on hand because a new guy was being taught to mix paint and he was not a quick learner. Amid much complaining, no one is claiming responsibility for the room which is now painted four different shades of diarrhea.

Sam from the Trailer Park Boys was in the store last week shopping for some fashionable new threads. As usual, I was left alone covering multiple departments and was in possession of the keys to the men's fitting room when he went over and rang the service bell. When I went over to let him in, there was a pissy woman there complaining that she had been ringing the bell for ten minutes and no one came. I could have been honest and said I wasn't paying attention and didn't really care, but instead I told her that celebrities got better service than everyone else. So in addition to being pissed, she was also now confused. How can you even call yourself a Nova Scotian if you don't know a Trailer Park Boy when you see one? Sam made no comment at the time, but I think he may have taken me seriously because he has been in the store every day since then.

Wal-mart's latest breed of pervert strikes without warning and is especially dangerous because they appear so harmless. I was folding shirts when I came across some misplaced merchandise from the health and beauty department including a handheld massager that lights up and is designed to look like a ladybug. I was going to return it when a man came and asked me where to find cell phone chargers. Since they can be found in both the electronics and the automotive department, my instructions involved a lot of pointing and gesturing during which I inadvertently pushed the On button on the massager. The massager, which had somehow come into contact with the customer's arm during our brief conversation, leapt to life vibrating and glowing at its highest speed. He pulled his arm back quickly. You had to be there to really understand how hilariously awkward it was. I backed away and then laughed to myself like the stranger-massaging pervert that I am.

Moving South

I am finally getting settled into my new house. Had I known what a huge hassle moving would be, I would have stayed put. Now that I have moved though, I'm glad I did. Being near Dal again is a nice change of scenery after a year in the geriatric district of the north end.

I went apartment hunting Randall-style. Four days before I had to be out of my apartment, I started worrying and called my mom, who came into the city to help me because I'm so very incompetent. We spent the day driving around looking at places. She wanted to look at some two bedrooms which baffled me. My thinking was "People aren't just going to see me on the street and want to be my roommate". Her thinking was "Let's stand on the street and people will want to be your roommate". I should have had more faith. The plan worked brilliantly. We stood in front of a house with a For Rent sign and within two minutes a girl and her mother came along and asked if we were looking for apartments. The mothers did most of the talking while the daughters stood by, embarrassed to be university graduates in our mid-20's apartment hunting with our moms, but at the same time resigned to their methods. Once both mothers were satisfied that the other's daughter was a fine upstanding citizen, we exchanged numbers and split up. Although we were looking for two bedrooms, we actually ended up settling on a seven bedroom house on South Street right across from Dal.

The landlord instructed us to ignore the broken glass and toxic sludge, so we did, and decided the place had enough good features to recommend it. Also, with only four days left on my lease, desperation may have played a part. I thought we may have to fight over the bedrooms but we both got our top choice; she, the one with a walk-in closet and Chronicles of Narnia wardrobe, I, the one with a fireplace and a private entrance.

So with Female Roommate and me and one SMU student, the total number of housemates was three, which is how it remains for now. There are still four rooms available that could be rented by crackheads, murderers, or first year students. At this point, I still have my own bathroom. Granted, it's a ridiculous bathroom with a bidet. I didn't even know bidets existed in North America. The previous tenants used it as an ash try. I want to plant flowers in it. The garage is dismal and unfinished but houses a bevy of treasures including a wheelchair and a pitchfork. I have been doing my best to steal useful furniture and fixtures from the spare rooms before anyone else moves in.

In educational news, I have returned to library school at the new NSCC campus on the Dartmouth waterfront. Getting to Dartmouth every day is a huge pain but I am getting my first hint of a tan this season traveling on the ferry every day. The school really is quite spectacular and high-tech with a fantastic view of the harbour.