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My day off was not without incident. I went to the dentist to get three cavities filled and, predictably, overslept until the time I was supposed to leave. After my appointment, I went to Walgreen's to get a prescription filled (amoxicillin for that tooth that shifted, if you really want to know), and I hung around in the store for fifteen minutes waiting for it. I ended up reading stupid Hallmark cards . . . and dropping a bunch on the floor . . . and knocking over some gift bags or something when I tried to put them back. Well, I had an excuse; I was in pain. Oh no; no, I wasn't—my mouth was still numb at that point. That did result in me biting my tongue a lot.
December 2—No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk My dad and I went to the grocery store tonight, and upon arriving home, I poured myself a glass of milk. In the process, I got milk on the counter above the dishwasher, on the counter by the microwave, in the sink, on the floor, on my sock, down the side of the glass, and yes, ultimately in the glass . . . and then down my chin and shirt. It was surprisingly little waste since all the splats were fairly small, but still. Oh, and I of course dropped the cap on the floor and promptly kicked it into a dust bunny when I bent to pick it up.
December 3—That goddam cabinet will be the death of me. Yes, another day at the kiosk and its broken cabinet door. Said door has a note on it reading "DO NOT TOUCH," but of course you have to touch it to access the contents, which invariably leads to crashes. I think I will remove the note next time I'm there; everyone knows it's a death trap. I also tangled my foot around the phone cord, sending it crashing to the floor before struggling with the cabinet door again. I swear I didn't touch it at all for today's crash. I was around the corner straightening calendars when I heard a by-now-familiar crash, and I peeked around to see that it had indeed collapsed of its own accord. I wedged it back into place, but damned if it didn't collapse again—directly onto my back—when I bent down to pick up a pen. That thing is now my nemesis. Tomorrow I plan to bring a couple of bolts, a wrench, and a crowbar (that last shouldn't actually be necessary, but I plan to find a use for it) and Expect tomorrow's klutzy incident to be something along the lines of how I lost my grip on the crowbar and it smashed through the glass of the shoe store window. Completely accidentally, of course.
December 4—"Fixing" the Cabinet, Part I How anticlimactic. My klutzy incident for today does not involve a botched attempt at fixing the broken cabinet door . . . well, actually it does. I brought the wrong size bolts for it, which means I spent the whole damn evening trying to force ¾ bolts through ½ inch holes. Brilliant. I did thoroughly enjoy beating the shit out of the cabinet with my crowbar, though. I think my manager was somewhat perturbed that I'd brought a crowbar to work, but it was necessary to force the metal back into the right shape.
December 5—"Fixing" the Cabinet, Part II I worked a short shift this evening, but I brought the correct nuts and bolts this time and managed to at least make a start on the cabinet. I didn't really have enough free time to get it done, so I shall have to try again tomorrow. Nothing much else happened this evening beyond the usual calendar crashes, plus of course dropping my wrench and crowbar respectively onto the tile floor several times. The people at the other kiosks must have thought a mechanic was at work in Day by Day Calendar.
December 6—Really Fixing the Damn Cabinet Today I opened instead of closing like I usually do. Being Saturday, it was extremely busy at the kiosk. People were trying to buy calendars before I'd even counted down the register. Bear in mind that I count down the register before I take down the curtains around the rest of the kiosk; there are four separate curtains to take down plus lights to plug in. It was slammed for a good three hours, and not until probably at least four o'clock did I get to work on the cabinet. That, as you might expect, involved a fair amount of dropping of nuts and bolts and my wrench and crowbar, not to mention trying (unsuccessfully) not to tangle myself in my tie line (for all two of you not in the know, I'm a stagehand, which means my wrench is tied to my belt loop with tie line for safety reasons) when I stood up. But I fixed it! Ha! It thought it could defeat me. But no. Stripped bolt, sheered metal, impossible angles, and all; I fixed the damn thing. Granted, it still sucks and needs to be kicked to shut properly, but I don't think anybody really minds giving the thing a vicious beating. Oh, and somebody else had probably the worst klutzy incident for once. I don't know who it was, but somebody at one of the other kiosks dropped something (apparently something rather heavy) on the floor with a loud bang, and a girl squealed. The crowded hall got very quiet very fast, and my customers all nervously looked around. I assured them that it wasn't loud enough to have been a gunshot. I was only guessing, really, but the general lack of pandemonium seemed a good indicator. Then I got home and had to get my dad to show me how to work the sewing machine so I could fix the torn linings in each of my only two pairs of slacks. I fixed the pants (with a great deal of wasted thread, plus running out of black thread and having to use some black and some navy), but I think I broke the sewing machine. Oh well.
December 7—So much for my freshly-mended pants. The pants I repaired last night ripped again tonight at the kiosk. I knew it was only the lining when it happened, but it's still quite unnerving to squat on the floor to stock calendars and hear cloth ripping anywhere near your crotch. I immediately got on the phone to my dad, and the following conversation ensued:
And then I very hastily terminated the conversation because I wanted to talk to someone just leaving the Game Store. I ran, crotch lining flapping inside my slacks, to catch up with her and ask the name of the guy who was working in there at the moment. I was convinced I knew him from somewhere, and I swear I even recognized the name, but damned if I can remember from where. I hoped to be able to ask him later when we were closing, but whoever he was was still closing the register in the Game Store when I was already leaving the kiosk, and I didn't want to interrupt him or creepily wait for him. I'll just wait till I run into him again. That will be a klutzy incident. Depend upon it.
Today was my day off, but I ended up hanging out at work anyway because I wanted out of the house. I wore a dress I'd recently purchased at Goodwill, and it got a couple of compliments. I didn't know we were allowed to wear skirts to work, so this changes things a bit. I will wash it and wear it to work soon, provided it's not far too cold. Anyway, as might be expected, I suffered a couple of small mishaps while hanging out in the mall. I was wearing flats, and, not being used to them, kept nearly flinging them from my feet. I felt a bit like Agador in The Birdcage, with the shoes that made him fall down. No one else seemed to notice, though.
I wore a long skirt to work today, which, as I predicted, tripped me up several times as I tried to stock calendars, but nothing too catastrophic. I also caught the lanyard with my name tag on it on the hem of the skirt several times, which, had I not been careful, could have pulled the hem of my skirt up to waist height when I stood up. Luckily, that did not happen. Later, I gave my friend and coworker Wallace a ride home since it was very cold and raining. I tossed my purse into the back seat of my car instead of leaving it in the passenger seat like I do when I'm alone, only I didn't bother to check if it were zipped closed first. This of course meant that a split second later, I winced as I heard the clattering of the considerable contents falling and rolling about the floor. I shrugged and scooped them all back into the bag haphazardly upon arriving home. That in itself was an adventure since, thanks to the unpleasant weather, I missed a turn for the first time ever and went a mile out of my way and had to turn around. Oh, yeah, and perhaps not klutzy, but definitely somewhat related in terms of lack of grace, at least social grace: This afternoon at the kiosk, Wallace was helping me stock calendars when some girl walked up to us and asked about a former coworker of ours. Said coworker is "former" because he got fired the day after Black Friday because . . . well, he was an idiot. He closed a good thirty minutes early every single time he worked, opened late, screwed up paperwork, etc. Thusly, the conversation this afternoon went as follows:
. . . Yeah. I probably should have said "He's no longer with us" or something a bit less obvious. As Wallace observed, though, the girl did not seem that surprised at the news. Perhaps she knew something I didn't. I did not actually know that the fired guy had been closing early every time, and I hadn't heard any of the other stuff either. It's a little annoying that people are still talking about it, but, as coworker Thai so aptly said, it's drama. Thai seems to prefer to stay out of the social circuit at work altogether for that reason. I quite agree. Also, Thai is awesome.
I brought tea to the kiosk upon arriving there this afternoon, which—naturally—I sloshed over the counter within minutes. Only a very little, luckily, but it was enough to make me want a paper towel. I reached under the cabinet for the roll of paper towels and pulled the remaining two towels off the roll, quite by accident. I was actually reaching for the whole roll, but the roll somehow twisted itself around the towels and then fell out, leaving me with a wadded up mess. Frustrated, I abandoned the idea, tossed the towels back under the cabinet, threw out the roll, and left the counter to soak quietly for the next half hour. At least I managed not to drop anyone's calendars in the spilled tea. After the first time. Oh, and later I tangled myself in my Doctor Who-esque scarf when I was trying to remove the lanyard with my name tag on it. I probably won't bring that particular scarf tomorrow.
December 11—Yes, Virginia, the wind does blow through holes in fabric. Contrary to my advice to myself last night, I did actually bring my Doctor Who-esque scarf to work this evening because it was cold again. I did, however, have the foresight to leave it in my locker until we left. Then I discovered that a lace scarf does NOTHING to keep out the cold. Well, admittedly, it wouldn't be too comfortable in eighty-degree weather, so it must have done something, but it sure didn't feel like it with a thirty-degree wind blowing through it.
Today my dad took me with him to look at a printer in Best Buy. While he was standing in the check out lane, I poked around a few feet away at some small gift bags hanging on an end cap. I of course dropped the one I picked off to examine, and when I replaced it, I knocked the whole display over. The cashier glanced over but said nothing. I hastily stuffed everything back into place and left before drawing further unwanted attention to myself. On the way home, my dad and I stopped and got Mexican food. It should go without saying that I dribbled salsa all over the damn table.
December 13—I will not be wearing a dress to work on a weekend again. I totally botched the register when closing the kiosk tonight. Oops. I misread a number one on a check, thinking it was a four, which I entered into the register, which then told me it was thirty dollars over. I had to get someone else to recount my drawer, and while she caught my error, she screwed up counting the change and entered the drawer as five cents off when it was in fact exactly right. *sigh* Also, I wore a dress to work today. Um . . . this was not such a good idea. It was INSANELY busy, and I kept having to kneel or bend down to restock calendars, which necessarily meant having to take extra precautions trying to make sure my stocking tops (or worse) didn't show. I'm sure I failed. Oh, and then I found out that I DID recognize the guy from the game store. I don't see him there all that often, but I'm convinced I've seen him somewhere. So tonight, since I was at the kiosk later than usual thanks to my register fuck up, I saw him leaving the game store. I said "I know you from somewhere" (withOUT blushing—ahem), and he asked, "Where would that be?" "I don't know," I said. "You just look really familiar. Did you ever work in theatre?" He shook his head. Not convinced, I continued, "Like at Bass Concert Hall, the Paramount, the Erwin Center . . . " "I used to work at the Erwin Center," he said. "That must be it!" I cried, without it occurring to me that he may have meant some years ago. But at least I found out who he was.
December 14—Sometimes wadding the curtains up would really be the better option. I opened the kiosk today. Nothing really dramatic happened, though I did manage to roll the curtains terribly awkwardly when taking them down. Instead of being a nice neat roll like they are when Wallace opens, the ends were up and down and all over the place, meaning that they will be fucking impossible for the poor sap who closes tonight. Oh well.
December 15—It was too boring even to do anything klutzy. I closed the kiosk today. Being a Monday night, it was SO GODDAM BORING I SWEAR I ALMOST WENT POSTAL OMG. I paced endlessly like I usually do, periodically pausing to lean against the cash register and roll my eyes at the empty hallway or kick at nothing in particular on the floor. I had three sales in the last two or three hours, meaning it was costing Borders more to keep me there than just sending me home, which they, alas, could not do due to mall regulations. Ten o'clock took its sweet time rolling around, and I swear I never closed so fast in my life. Tomorrow I'm cheating and bringing a small notebook or something to pass the time, I swear.
I closed the kiosk today—it was slightly busier than last night, meaning I didn't find myself almost crying from boredom, but only just. I don't have anything truly clumsy to report, unless you count me not going to bed nearly early enough considering how early I have to get up tomorrow. It couldn't really be helped since I had to close tonight, made worse by the fact that we're in holiday hours and thusly open an hour later (though NOBODY comes in during that last hour; there's maybe one sale in that time).
So today I had my long-awaited gum surgery. I didn't really do anything clumsy in the doctor's office . . . I may have dropped my purse or something; I don't really remember. What I do remember is the OMG! feeling of one of the sutures when it became apparent that I had perhaps received not quite enough anaesthetic. People with red or reddish hair apparently need more anaesthetic than people of other hair colors; and even my auburn hair, apparently, warrants putting me in that category. Other than that little incident, my gingival graft went off . . . or rather, on . . . without a hitch. The only clumsiness I can claim for today would have been any of the many times I fought with the caps of my various medications. Fuck.
December 18—Verifone Schmerifone So, tonight I learned several things, the most important of which being that Vicodin apparently interferes with my ability to perform basic math. I had a total disaster at the kiosk tonight when I was closing the register. I went to do the credit card settlement on the Verifone (the thing I swipe customers' credit cards on; it records all the credit card transactions, and I have to retrieve the batch at the end of the day). Said Verifone ran out of paper only a little bit through, and I called Borders to tell them to bring me more paper. The phone rang approximately FORTY THOUSAND times (okay, so for about three minutes), and nobody answered. Repeat. I gave up and called security and told them that I'd been calling and calling and calling Borders because I needed stuff to close out the register, nobody was answering, and I couldn't leave the register unattended to go down there myself. My only alternative was sitting on my ass for the next thirty minutes to an hour before they noticed I still wasn't done and either called me or came to get me. That was obviously not palatable, especially not with painful stitches in my mouth when I just wanted to be home. So I got a security guard to go down to Borders to tell them that, duh, they needed to answer their fucking phone and that somebody at their kiosk needed them. So Thai came to see what was up and brought me my Verifone tape, but when I put it in the machine, it said "empty batch," meaning it claimed there were no numbers for me to enter into the register, even though I hadn't entered anything yet. The net result of all this was that I had to add up all the receipts by hand and enter them manually into the register, which—of course—failed, me being somewhat medicated. The register wouldn't take the numbers, and I re-entered them to no avail. In the end I said fuck it and entered all the numbers as 0 (which you are TOTALLY not supposed to do, but goddammit, I wanted to go home). So then, on the receipt tape from the register where I'm supposed to check off the number of no sales and voids and so on, where it said "total number of charges," instead of checking it, I just put a question mark and wrote "settlement disaster." Oh well; they know I'm medicated. Somewhere in the middle of all this, the security guard I called came by the kiosk to verify that Borders had gotten back to me. I affirmed and complained that it was really less the lack of response regarding register trouble that bothered me, but more the fact that they KNOW I had stitches yesterday, and it could have been an emergency. My stitches could have burst open; I could have been calling to say that I had to leave right then and someone else needed to finish closing the register. Actually, if that were the case, I would have abandoned the register (probably not even bothered closing it, leaving all $1211.61 in there for the nearest thief) and hauled ass out of there.
If it happens again, I AM taking my half-finished paperwork down to the store and saying, "Don't you dare bitch at me; this is what happens when you don't answer the phone."
December 19—Reveling in Raveling? Today was my day off, and I didn't go anywhere (I was in too much pain from my gum surgery to have the motivation), so I did some laundry and knitted a bit on a blanket. That doesn't sound like a day that left much room for clumsiness, but I always find a way. I somehow managed to snag the yarn and cause it to fray, meaning I had to rip out the row, cut off the yarn where it was fraying, and start over. This happened three times. I don't even know what I snagged the yarn on. Snags notwithstanding, I knitted about five inches in the blanket—only five more until the thing reaches the minimum length at which I'd consider it done. Hurray!
December 20—The waitstaff of every IHOP in town braces itself when I walk in. Yes indeed. I swear when I walk through the doors of an IHOP, the atmosphere crackles with the tingling tension of impending devastation. In the past, I have variously knocked down a waitress, knocked over a table, and either spilled onto tables or ground into carpet untold quantities of coffee, hash browns, and syrup. So, needless, to say, when I met a friend at IHOP this evening, it was not without incident, even though all I had was hot tea. When it arrived, I reached for a sugar packet, tore it open, and promptly poured the contents over the table and into the booth. My friend, of course, was wrapped up in what he was saying and failed to noticed my little sugar Chernobyl for some time as I tried to covertly wipe the seat clean without appearing inattentive. Naturally, he did notice eventually and twitched and asked, "What are you doing?" "I spilled sugar all over the table and seat," I explained simply, though my tone probably clearly added, "Well—you might have guessed." He barely even bothered to roll his eyes before continuing with the previous subject.
I spent all day working at the kiosk with my coworker and fellow Doctor Who fan, Wallace. As we were standing by the register, Wallace pointed out a passing guy who was dressed just like David Tennant as the tenth incarnation of the Doctor. He had the suit, sneakers, brown coat, mussed hair, and glasses; it was perfect. I naturally assumed it was a deliberate impersonation and rushed up to him, spouting stuff about how he looked like Doctor Who. He blinked confusedly and asked what I meant. Apparently he'd never even heard of Doctor Who. I did not believe him, but what could I say? I stammered something unintelligible and slunk back into the kiosk. Wallace later teased me about being in my hyper squirrel mode, obviously thinking the guy was cute, and obviously botching it. Oh well.
December 22—I don't really know why cat ears hats are supposed to be cute. I worked all day in the kiosk again, which brought about not exactly a klutzy incident but yes, one of those times when I wish I'd kept my trap shut. I was wearing my hand knit cat ears hat today, which I don't particularly like. I only made myself one because a guy I really liked thought they were cute. So I wore it today, and the manager of the shoe store across from the kiosk complimented me on it. I made the mistake of saying I'd made it myself, which of course led to "so can you make another one and have it done by Christmas Eve?" Crap. Making a hat in a day and a half is a lot of knitting. But the promise of thirty-five dollars is tempting enough to ignore the prospect of spending the entirety of my day off getting carpal tunnel syndrome knitting a Christmas present for the girlfriend I've never met of a virtual stranger I don't really like.
December 23—Worst. Christmas gift. EVAR. I went to the gum specialist again this morning for a follow up appointment. I went in thinking that I was going to get my stitches out. Fifteen minutes later (I spent ten of said fiteen minutes waiting for the good doctor to come in), I went home trying not to gnash my teeth. Fucking DUH, the stitches don't come out after only a week; I have to wait at least three more weeks. Grrr. Then I went home and finished the cat ears hat. It is not by any means my best work. It's too long, the ears don't look evenly placed, and the duplicate stitch on the front sucks. It's readable; it says "Pickle" (his pet name for her. I didn't think it paid to ask.), but I still think it sucks. Oh well; I'm just glad I finished the damn thing.
December 24—Santa Claus does not deliver grace, apparently. I somehow escaped both opening and closing at work on Christmas Eve, though of course I did not leave on time. (Oh, and yes, the shitty cat ears hat was a big success.) I stayed half an hour late while waiting for my relief to arrive, who then of course took forever counting down the drawer. Then I went home to discover that my dad was asleep. He woke up around midnight or one, so we went ahead and did our gift exchange then. It is of course to be expected that I encountered some difficulty unwrapping my presents; I tangled myself in ribbon and tape and nearly skidded on wrapping paper on the floor at one point. Luckily, my dad cleaned up.
I prepared a glorious roast duckling for Christmas dinner, which I couldn't properly enjoy thanks to the stitches in my gum. I tried to eat some, but that was apparently a mistake; I think it made my gum bleed a bit. Blood in my mouth aside, the worst thing that happened to me was I slipped in some watery blood from the duckling that I dribbled onto the kitchen floor as I prepared it. I didn't fall, which was especially good as the impact would likely have adversely affected my gum. I've spent far too many Christmases with stitches in my head (from operations) already; I'd prefer not to have them put there due to a trip to the emergency room.
December 26—Post-Christmas mobs annoy me almost—almost—as much as pre-Christmas ones. Upon arriving at the kiosk for work this afternoon, I faced what could only be described as wreckage. The slowest employee had been there by herself the previous four hours, although the assistant manager knew damn well that there were supposed to be two people there, and especially that the slowest employee should not have been left by herself at the busiest kiosk in the district the day after Christmas. The store manager was furious when she found out. (Yes!—I hate that assistant manager.) Needless to say, there was a lot of catching up to do, mostly restocking and tidying the mauled walls of the kiosk towers. I hopped on the register as much as I could since I . . . am the exact opposite of the slowest employee. I took a few trips down to the inline for restocking, which of course was where the clumsiness occurred. I T-boned a toddler with the restock cart, plus I ran over some woman's toe. I felt marginally bad about the first (though the parents were partly to blame; they should have been watching their kid as she ran away from them without looking where she was going), but the other woman I did not feel in the least bit sorry for since I told her "excuse me," etc., THREE FUCKING TIMES AND SHE STILL DIDN'T MOVE. That's more or less how I operate: "Excuse me . . . excuse me . . . ma'am? Oh, fine. [shove]" Seriously, none of those idiots would last five minutes backstage. If you don't have the sense not to move out of the way of a moving cart of steel, you don't get to bitch when you get your toe run over.
This evening I was working on a knit blanket and discovered, oh shite, that I'd somehow picked up and then dropped a stitch almost all the way at the bottom, fucking up the border of the blanket. I had to rip out the last eight stitches all the way down; it will take some time to pull them all back up in the proper order. Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn.
December 28—I only thought I was fixing the blanket. I spent all day at work furtively looking around for the guy I saw last Sunday who looked like Doctor Who; alas, I did not see him. Then I went home to work some more on the blanket, only to discover that I was not repairing it properly and would have to begin again. It's so annoying; the rest of the blanket is finished, but I have to undo this one section all the way down almost to the beginning, so it takes forever to fix. There are color changes too, so that makes it more annoying. At least it's not a cable or lace pattern or anything; then I'd really be fucked.
Today I worked the load in for the Rockettes at the Erwin Center. I don't think it needs to be said that I of course gave myself many small bruises in the process. Oh, and I dribbled soup on the tablecloth when I went to get lunch. They gave us catered food, and I got soup for the sake of my gum, with predictable results. I can't wait to see what happens when I work the out on New Year's Eve.
In between days at the Erwin Center, I worked at the calendar store. While there, I had to call the Erwin Center to confirm that I could work tomorrow, plus I wanted to tell the stage manager something. This is another classic instance of me not thinking things through before opening my mouth. One of the calendar people I work with, you see, did four years of tech theatre in high school and is now studying film and really wants to break into the industry. When I first met her, I talked to her about that and said that she should call the Erwin Center and tell them that she had experience and wanted to break into the industry. Fast forward a couple of weeks, when I actually had to work with this girl. Good God. I have rarely worked with anyone so slow or annoyingly whiny. I've probably only encountered equally slow people twice in my life, and in both cases it because of a mental disability. Anyway, I worked with this girl, watching her sloth-like operation of the cash register, and thought, "Aw shit, I've got to call [the stage manager at the Erwin Center]." So I called the stage manager at the Erwin Center to confirm that I could work tomorrow, and while I was on the phone, I mentioned my idiot coworker by name and that she'd likely be calling about work. Then I snagged a bit on my words because I wasn't sure what I could legally say. The stage manager, sounding a bit frustrated, said, "I can't say anything; you can say whatever you want to—" "She's lazy, ignorant, and incompetent; don't hire her," I blurted out. The stage manager laughed and said she'd bear that in mind. I hope she will remember, and/or the other girl will never get around to calling her. . . . Actually, I guess this was the reversal or prevention of a klutzy incident. Sweet. I'm not counting on it turning the tide or anything, though. And before I catch any flak about being evil, I did feel a twinge of guilt in effectively getting the sloth-girl blacklisted. But not as guilty as I would have felt had she shown up to work at the Erwin Center and fucked something up, which wouldn't have helped my career either.
December 31—You don't really have to ask. As I was working at the Erwin Center tonight, of COURSE there were klutzy incidents. Not all of them were mine, luckily. As a matter of fact, I witnessed two near-calamities from quite a safe distance. The worst thing I did was give myself a large bruise on the hip from lifting truss. At the end of the night, after we finished the load out, we all went out to the parking lot for beer and champagne. I partook in the champagne, which—of course—spilled. And later one of the other stagehands hugged me and kissed the top of my head. He wasn't drunk or stoned, either, which made it that much more terrifying. Too bad I didn't spill champagne on him.
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