A Day In The Life

... Of a Mall Retail Employee

(This is an older blog/rant/humor piece I wrote. I figured it needed a new permanent home here. I loved this job immensely and it was how I met a lot of friends in Washington. Now that we're moving, I thought it was appropriate to revive this piece. Enjoy!)

I enjoy my job. I really do. I work in a small framing store that sells posters, prints, custom frames, artsy miscellany and other neat home decor items and gifts. I like the framing aspect of it because I get to design something and actually build a product for a customer. There's pride for a job well done and a sense of accomplishment. At the end of the day, I did more than just take cash. I actually produced something great.

What I hate about my job, are the customers. A person is smart. People are absolute idiots.

I'll describe the layout of my store. When you walk in the doors (the entire front of the store is glass, completely clear) and approach the front counter, there is an entire wall carpeted and lined floor to ceiling with moulding samples of every size, color, and profile imaginable.

The most commonly asked question?

"Do you do framing here?"

No, as a matter of fact, we're a Buick dealership. We just throw frames on the wall to confuse BMW drivers.

Or the classic:

"I've got a picture that's... oh I don't know... yay big (gestures with hands). How much to frame it?"

Oh, about yay much. We accept Visa, MasterCard, and Yay Express.

The mall where I work is also right next to a movie theater, which of course makes me and every other person who works here an honorary employee of Regal Cinemas. I'm repeatedly asked for my opinion on movies, prices of popcorn, and showtimes. The latter I love the most, as I'll spout off random times when they ask about a title.

I've actually been yelled at for this though, as one guy was upset that he asked for tickets to the 7:23 showing of The Mummy, only to find out that it started at 7:15. 8 minutes of his quality fapping to Brendan Fraser lost to my bad timing. I assure you, I was crushed at my egregious error.

I also moonlight as a mall directory. Because we're one of the few stores that doesn't require our employees to stand out front like hotel doormen when there is no one in the store, people seem to think that we're not busy. In fact, the sound of the compressor, mat cutter, underpinner and excessive hammering that emanates from my workshop is just me making lunch. I should buy fresher bread.

"Where is the bathroom?"

Note they did not use the qualifier 'nearest.' This one is almost too easy.

The smartish ones ask:

"Where is the nearest bathroom?"

Of course there are standing mall directories every 100 feet and large signs hanging from the ceiling indicating where the restrooms are. This is not good enough. Apparently, the symbols for male|female do not register when someone is about to have a Chernobyl meltdown in t-minus ten seconds and counting.

I wonder what the international symbol for explosive diarrhea is?

The phone is an amazing tool. It allows people to communicate nearly instantaneously, even though they are miles apart. It also makes people instantly deaf and brain damaged upon picking up the receiver.

"This is The Great Frame Up, Jessica speaking. How can I help you?"
"Hi, is this The Great Frame Up?"
"... Yes. This is The Great Frame Up. Jessica speaking. How can I help you?"
"Hi Jennifer, this is Mary Whateverson. I have some pictures I need framed. Can I bring them in, or...?"

Or what? Are you interested in our door to door framing service?

"Certainly, just bring them in, we'll design with you and get your order started."
"Fantastic. Is there someone there if I come right now?"

My boss once asked me why I had such a large bottle of aspirin in my desk.

Doors are another intriguing invention. Some have only two settings; closed and open. Some more complex doors also add the settings locked and unlocked. Countless misadventures are had at the hands of locked and closed doors for my store.

I've worked mall jobs in 5 states, at 8 malls. Every mall that I've worked at is open from 10 am until 9 pm, with variable hours on Sundays and holidays. My research tells me that this is a pretty standard hours set for shopping malls (not strip malls or outlet centers) across this great nation. Obviously, my research has led me astray.

Closed, locked doors are but a menial hurdle for the insistent shoppers who frequent my establishment. Not even having the lights off is a deterrent for people needing a wall sized print of Johnny Depp for their dorm room. Oh no. One good tug on the door and the ear splitting scrape of the locking mechanism on solid tile is the surefire "We're open!" sound to early morning mall shoppers, "CLOSED" signs be damned.

This happens about once a week. Usually followed by my emergence into the front of the store with the standard "What the hell?" look but a helpful, "Is there a problem?"

Almost always, my question is answered with "I think there's something wrong with your door," or "Why is it so dark in here?"

Tell me. When have you EVER gone to a mall and had to open a door (let alone tug on it like a chronic one-armed sex fiend with erectile dysfunction) to get into a store?

Designing is another fun part of my job. People get to bring in fun and interesting artwork, family portraits, and sentimental souvenirs from the journey of life. I get to design them and set them off with a spectacular framing project. This is more fun than it should be. I get to play with colors like a kindergartner and actually put together a plan for a project I get to build later. Its like working on a puzzle but first you have to put the box together to see what the puzzle is going to look like.

So this gentleman comes in, we'll call him Tom, and he's just a sweetheart. Wants a present for his mom's birthday and found a print that his mother will just love. He unrolls it and its a picture of Jesus, looking out over Jerusalem.

I myself am not a highly religious person, but the picture is absolutely moving. The color, the detail, the rich golden tones of the earthy landscape... It truly is a beautiful scene.

Generally, we design to the art. We don't pick colors of matting that aren't already in the picture. This print, having a very sepia tone to it, leads me to the browns and beiges, and I start matching colors, really bringing this print to life. Tom stops me and says, "I have something special in mind."

I immediately start to like this Tom. Customers who know what they want (even if it looks horrific) are generally good customers, happy customers, and easy to deal with because they've custom framed before.

Tom says, "I'm looking for a blue mat." There is no blue in this picture, but I don't argue, and I start pulling out some blues, casually asking him "Why blue?" Maybe there's a special story behind this.

There usually is.

Oh, there is.

"I'm actually looking for a suede mat. In blue."

There are pieces of artwork where blue suede mats are just absolutely perfect for the pictures. Then there is art where a blue suede mat makes it look like a five dollar clearance rack purchase at the Flying J Truck Stop. This would be one of those pictures.

I really was at a loss for words. I said what came to my mind at that point.

"Blue suede, for a picture of Jesus Christ?"

I did manage to censor the "Are you fucking mental?" part.

I'm pretty sure that in Islam, if you frame a picture of Mohammed in blue suede, you suffer for all eternity in a pit of burning pitch. Its in the Q'uran somewhere. I don't know if Christians have an equivalent punishment, but certainly feeding offenders to the lions wouldn't be harsh enough.

Tom's reply haunts me to this day. "Growing up," he says, "Mama always loved his music. I can't buy her a pair of blue suede shoes, but I can give her a blue suede picture of her favorite singer."

I'm gonna need a bigger bottle of aspirin.

The Drop-It-Not

The day my son was born I gained more than just a bundle of joy. I got eyes in the back of my head, an extra arm, the ability to sleep only two hours a night and change the foulest diaper at 3 am in under 43 seconds.

What I didn't get was a catcher's mitt and the quick reflexes of Anna Kournikova.

Sidenote: Pregnancy didn't give me her body either. Its a cruel, cruel world.

So, to the rescue, the Drop-It-Not. I heard about it from a friend who happens to be the daughter of the inventor. She asked me if I'd use it and give it a solid, honest review. Of course I agreed. I like stuff and things. I like writing. I like writing about stuff and things.

Hey Apple, I hope you're reading this. I'd love to test out the iPad 2 for you. And other stuff and things.

But realistically, I've bought a lot of things since having my child that turned out to be just plain crap, and other things I can't live without. So if I can help someone else make better decisions, why not?

Anyhoo. Since we are in the middle of a move, Jack is spending the majority of his days in a carseat, stroller, or pack-n-play, I figured now was the perfect time to test this puppy out. Well, its not so much a puppy as it is a monkey. With long colorful arms. I could sit here and describe what it looks like to you, but thanks to the magic of the internet, I can show you.

 

There's a snap on top of the arms long enough to reach around car seat loops, restaurant high chairs, home high chairs, pack-n-plays, strollers, umbrella strollers, baby gates... so far, anything that I've wanted to attach this thing to, I've been able to make it work. And for a baby who moves faster than drivers at the redneck left turn extravaganza, I need and have attached this thing in some pretty weird and unconventional places.

I have been using a similar product by BooginHead, but its a bottle holder and only allows me to attach one item. Its been a good purchase so far, but I don't want to have several of them hanging off Jack's stroller to keep his stuff organized. Plus, moving more than one to secure to other seats, chairs, carts, etc., can get to be a hassle.

The bottle featured in the picture (which I took from the product website), is a Nuby and the contour makes it the perfect brand for the loop straps on the legs. However, Jack uses some no name brand spill proof sippy cup with no contours, but the strap can be adjusted tightly enough that no matter how hard he throws it, his cup is secure.

And boy does he love throwing it. I think this is single-handedly the most frustrating piece of baby gear he has encountered. There's something about the satisfying crash of a bottle, a toy, or a snack cup on the floor that just makes Jack laugh maniacally as I sigh and bend down to pick it up. But now he looks down to investigate WHY there was no crash and no sigh, and you can see the disappointment, frustration and determination on his face.

At restaurants and stores, I don't have to worry about his teether or sippy cup hitting a nasty floor mopped nightly by apathetic minimum wage paid employees with water the people dying of thirst in the desert would refuse. At home, I can put Jack in his high chair near me with his food and drink and go do something (like wash dishes from his last meal) knowing I won't have to keep running to catch his Gyrobowl and his milk. In the mall parking lot, the used cigarette butts and discarded condoms are of no concern since the Drop-It-Not keeps his stuff well away from the ground.

Sidenote: Who has sex in a mall parking lot and enjoys it enough to have a smoke afterwards?

Its machine washable if you choose (and I don't buy things for Jack that aren't machine or dish washer safe, so this is a major plus), durable as hell (I have pulled and pulled on the arms and legs to test them and its very well constructed), and colorful. The monkey is plush and soft, which Jack seems to like as he sinks his teeth in. And, its good for almost anything.

Things I've attached to the Drop-It-Not: Bottles, sippy cups, pacifiers, teethers, snack cups, woobies (small security blankets), toys with loops or holes, and my dog. The last one was by far the most fun and a really good test of endurance and quality of the assembly. Its darn good. Its Jack-Jack and American Eskimo tested and approved good.

In short (and on a more serious note), I have to give the Drop-It-Not a great review.  I like the fact that I can attach two items with one product (though I have had a sippy cup on one and two toys on the other loop) and the snap together arms are large enough to accommodate and attach to a variety of surfaces. I love how it keeps whatever happens to be connected within reach of my son, off the floor and away from germs and bacteria. Its well made, durable, easy to clean, compact (I carry mine in my son's diaper bag), and VERY useful. The only suggestion I could see to improve upon the design is a way to adjust the length of the legs, longer or shorter. It would be a bonus, not something that's necessarily needed. Overall, with my second child on the way, I'll be ordering his the day he is able to hold his own bottle.

If you're interested, you can visit the product website at http://www.dropitnot.com where you can read more about it, see pictures, and order one for yourself.

And to Ms. Schradzki: Please invent the Keep-It-To-Yourself, an updated version for Dads that fits around their waist with at least 10 loops that hang down where my husband can keep his wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers and hammers since he refuses to use the dozen or so toolboxes he just had to purchase, and instead keeps all his crap on my kitchen counter.

Friendship Boundaries

Tonight Niki and I had to have 'the talk'.

Not the sex talk, although she did use the word 'vagina' an inordinate amount of times tonight. It wasn't an intervention or one of those sit down discussions where we divulge our innermost secrets and truly bond as womenfolk over tears and chocolate ice cream.

Tonight, I had to draw a line in the sand and let Niki, my boo, know that there were boundaries and limitations to our friendship; lines that were solid and unchangeable.

We spent the majority of our Mommy's Evening Off cruising around Babies 'R' Us (yes, I realize the irony of spending our night away from the babies in a baby store). Niki found a light up rattle which kept her occupied for an hour like a kitten in a catnip and tinsel factory, and I cornered the only teenage male employee in the store to ask his personal opinion on breast pump effectiveness and which brand would he use were he properly endowed.

As always, it was a pretty fun night.

But nature called, expedited by an especially restless Bruce practicing Chuck Norris-Jitsu in my ever-expanding belly, and after paying for my purchases I headed off to the luxe accommodations of the Babies 'R' Us ladies restroom.

And it was there in those cramped facilities, accompanied by the smell of lemon Pine Sol and urine, I realized that Niki and I needed boundaries in our friendship. In fact, I think everyone does.

It was an awkward couple of minutes I spent in the restroom, doing my business and hurrying to get out of there. But I met up with my boo right outside and said in the gravest (and most appropriate tone) for the occasion:

"Niki, we need to talk."

Immediately, her brow furrowed and she looked at me curiously. "What did I do?"

"Nothing yet. That's why we need to talk. I just witnessed something and I need to make sure it never happens to us."

"... okay."

"Our friendship has blossomed in the past few months, wouldn't you say?" (Niki nodded.)

"There's a lot that I would do for you, and with you, above and beyond what acquaintances would do. I really do treasure our friendship. For example, if I were able to have a natural birth with Bruce and you could be there, I'd want you to be one of the people in the room witnessing the miracle of life emerge. I mean, we're going in to get our first full leg waxes tomorrow. Together. That's special. That's a special kind of bonding."

"Jess, you're creeping me out."

"But there's stuff I won't do Niki. I just won't do it."

"What in the heck happened in there?"

I sighed. The memory was still fresh. "If you called me at 3 o'clock in the morning, I'd pick up, even if you had nothing to say."

"Well, I'd text that late, yeah. But not call."

"Whatever. The point is, I'm always there for you. Except."

"Except?"

"Yeah. Except. If you ever call me when you're taking a poop in a public restroom, we're done. That's a line you can never cross. I have standards. Not many, but that's one I won't compromise on."

And then Niki understood. I'd never be as good as some of her more open minded friends back home, but at least I'd laid it all on the line. She paused and looked at me in the frigid 7 degree parking lot air.

"Deal." And I could tell in her face that she meant it.

Doctor's Appointment

If my son Jack could talk, or express himself in an understandable way, he'd probably tell me that today was the worst day of his life so far--and I'd have to agree. It was pretty rough for me, as well.

No, I'm not being melodramatic. There's nothing seriously wrong with little man, but we did have a doctor's appointment this morning, and I am beginning to loathe check up days. I LOVE Jack's pediatrician, Dr. Z K. The Z K stands for ZOMG KOULDN'TYOUHAVEASHORTERNAME? (Seriously, she's a military pediatrician and the name on her BDU nametag has to be written in an 8 point font.)

But Dr. Z K is amazing. She is very thorough, she identifies what could be potential problems, and she tells us everything we could ever want or need to know about Jack's health and development, and does so it in a way that's not scary, but informative.

I still walk out of her office feeling like a huge idiot.

To begin with, Jack is a small dude. And by small, I mean he's in the fifth percentile for height and weigh. We have friends with kids who are half Jack's age that could put him in a headlock. At least Jack can bite his way to freedom. But Dr. Z K says "He's doing fine, its best not to compare. Besides, I'm looking at a child who obviously has no problems eating. He is small, but its normal."

Sidenote: She pronounces "normal" by saying "NAH-mahl". I love her accent, and hearing that my son is "NAH-mahl" is very comforting.

Development, motor skills, fine motor skills, appetite, vocal and social abilities: All "NAH-mahl". Yay for us!

And then she runs out of gold stars.

Jack has dry skin. Or so we thought. After examining him, Dr. Z K tells us that the rough knees are "NAH-mahl" for crawlers, but the dry skin could be weather related, eczema, or allergies. "Do you have pets?" she asks us. "Oh God, please tell me its the cats," says Reed.

Jack had a cold two weeks ago. Or so we thought. After examining him, Dr. Z K looks at me and asks:

"Has he had a fever?"
"Not more than 100 degrees."
"Hmm."

(At this point, when she says "hmm", my mommy panic meter is amped up to 11. On a scale that normally goes to 5. Maybe I should start using the terrorist threat alert color scale. Anyhoo.)

"Has he been fussy, or having problems sleeping through the night?"
"... No?"
"Hmm."

(Houston, we have a problem. The mommy panic meter is now at 27. Bill Paxton is officially vomiting all up in the lunar module.)

"Other than the congestion he had, did he have any other symptoms?"
"... No?"
"Hmm."

(Jesus H. Christ.)

"His ears are infected."

Okay, so its not a huge deal, but a capital FFS. My kid had no symptoms, never rubbed his ears, and other than spreading baby snot all over my living room furniture we had NO clue what so ever that our kid had an ear problem. How could I miss this? How terrible a mom am I?

"Its fairly NAH-mahl for small children to develop ear infections. I'll prescribe some antibiotics. Should go away soon. Just don't get on a plane for the next few weeks."

Face on desk.

Long story short, we finished up the exam, and then headed to the next office. Immunizations. For Jack's one year shots to be up to date, he had to get:

• Hepatitis A
• HiB (4th dose)
• MMRV
• PCV-13
• Flu Shot

Five shots. Five.

One, two, three, four, five.

Cinco.

Five times my son looked up at me as the needle went in. Five times he looked at me with utter horror, tears welling up in his baby blues, squeezing my little finger and asking in his silent, open-mouthed scream why I'd betrayed him.

Two penguin Band-Aids on his thighs later and I'm feeling, again, like the worst mom in the world. Jack's feeling pretty miserable, as he's resting on Reed's shoulder with his thumb in his mouth with wet cheeks and dagger eyes.

Then the next stop on our journey through the nine circles of hospital hell: the lab.

Bloodwork. Bloodwork to check for anemia (NAH-mahl procedure) and for standard allergies (not NAH-mahl). More needles. More screaming. More "way to be a shitty mom, mom."

Sigh.

Three vials of blood. THREE!? Jack is 19 pounds. Three vials of blood out of him and he looked liked the vampire cast of Twilight minus the glitter, crappy acting, and the teen angst. And even with the color drained from his face, the tears staining his cheeks, and his little throat sore from screaming, he still had the energy left to look at me with the worst pouty face he could muster.

Which, to my breaking heart might as well have been the middle finger.

Sigh.

Only 6 more months until the next one. Joy.

The New Date Night

Tonight was dinner with friends, and the last time that most of us will see each other with deployments, TDY's, training, and our move to Las Vegas in just over a month. It was a nice dinner with 6 friends, a three month old, and our son Jack who really tested his lungs over spumoni and drinks.

We're still working on the 'indoor voice' lesson. I'll let you know how that goes.

Soon the dinner came to a close and we all parted ways, but Reed and I don't get out much, so we decided to get in the car and just drive. I like these nights. We sit in the car, listening to tunes, holding hands and drive, taking the roads less traveled and watching time and streetlamps whip by.

There's not much to do in Spokane at 7:30 pm when you have a one year old in tow, especially one passed out in the backseat making cute little sighs and rubbing his nose. Apparently its frowned upon to leave your kid in the car when its 34 degrees outside to run in for shots of Patron and really bad Karaoke.

So we decided on Sonic for dessert, where we could sit there and enjoy our frozen sugar treats and just cherish the peace and quiet.

Reed pulled in to a slip, rolled down the window and ordered a hot fudge sundae for him, and a Butterfinger Sonic Blast for me.

Sidenote: Is anyone anatomically proportioned so that you can sit in your SUV, order, AND PAY at their little curbside cardswipe station? Even Inspector Gadget has to marvel at the wtfery of the ergonomics.

Back to the story.

We're waiting for our order to come, and we open the moon roof. Nothing like a nighttime stop at the drive in, with romantic incandescent lighting. Then it hit us that its 34 degrees outside, so the moon roof was quickly closed.

Regardless, Reed leaned over, kissed me on the cheek, took my hand, and slouched into his seat with a contented grin on his face. We sat like that, peacefully, until our order arrived.

Sidenote #2: I don't tip the waitresses at Sonic unless they come out on roller skates. Perhaps that's mean, but why else go to Sonic if its not for the HOLY SHIT ITS A GALLON sized Cherry Limeades and the promise of seeing someone wobble their way out to my car?

Honestly? Best damned dessert I've had in a while. And I shared it with my wonderful husband and the adorable snoring seat warmer in the back.

But what really got to me was when Reed takes the cherry off his sundae and plops it on top of my Sonic Blast.

"Don't you want the cherry?" I said.
"Nah. You have it."
"I thought you liked cherries?"
"I do. But I know you love them."

Who knew you could say "Hey babe. I love you." with a tiny fruit ball on a stem?

The New Date Night is definitely a keeper.

What's in a name?

A lot, if you've got 20 weeks worth of squirming baby in your belly, kicking your bladder and still known as Baby X. I don't remember the naming of our first child being this hard. In fact, I think it was pretty easy. Jack was the first name both of us liked, and at the risk of more arm wrestling and evil eyes at each other because one thought the name the other liked was 'idiotic', we said "Okay, let's pick that one."

This time... holy cow. Someone should seriously start a professional baby naming service to help out couples who, like us, are on the verge of writing to the book publishers to ask "What the hell were you thinking when you posted some of these names?"

Not only that, but try asking people you know and LOVE "What do you think of this name?" Everyone has dated someone with that name (and he was an asshole), knows 4 people who named their kids that, or "Wait, wasn't that a character on Battlestar Galactica?"

At this point, Opie Juan sounded fantastic. Who wouldn't want a Mexican Jedi for a son?

Sidenote: Chick (not Chuck, but Chick, as in a baby chicken) is a MALE name, most commonly used in the United States, and it means "Very manly." I suppose you'd have to be. Especially if your twin brother's name is Saucy Broad.

I digress.

After much discussion, debating, reading, reviewing, listing, crossing off, relisting, we finally came to a conclusion for the name of our second child, and not a name that we SETTLED on, but that we really do like.

So meet our soon-to-be newest addition:

Bruce Johnson Goldberg

And if for some reason, Bruce doesn't work out, we'll go with our second choice: Habib.

Blog: Yet another four letter word

Blogging.

All the cool kids are doing it and by all the cool kids, I mean my boo. And for some reason, an inordinate amount of weird, crazy, and absolutely insane stuff happens to me and my family, so why not share with the online world? Or at least, my one follower.

Sidenote: Should I follow my own blog? What's the e-etiquette on that?

Before today, I'd just post little snippets of my random "train ride to the awesome asylum" life and post them on Facebook. I thought about doing Twitter, but I don't know if I could fit a Taco Bell order in 140 characters, let alone my day to day. Then my buddy started blogging, and since we copy everything the other does (other than fashion, because I'm pretty much hopeless), here we are.

It'll be weird. It'll be random. It'll be true, and full of more wtfery than a craigslist personal ad, but this is my crazy, messed up, wonderful life on the crazy bus.

All aboard.