black friday makes my soul poop brown

Happy Post-Thanksgiving, ya'll! Hope your big day of eating was a cheery one. Turkey day is really kind of a bird holocaust sanctioned by American tradition, but I love the holiday anyway. I guess there's just something about having an excuse to stuff face with food that I really appreciate.

My Thanksgiving was a quiet one. This was mainly due to the fact I had to be at work at 5:30am this morning for the horror that is known as Black Friday. Waking up at 4:45am is not exactly my thing, and I had to be sure to go to bed extra early last night in order to wake up in time.

Of course, I wasn't able to get a good evening's rest at all. I'm allergic to a bed time. As soon as I tell my body that it must be asleep by a certain time, it goes and does the opposite. My mind goes in to Super Mega Thinking Concentration Mode. It's really not as productive as it sounds, either.

Seriously, my body and brain hold a conversation that goes something like this:

2 HOURS BEFORE BEDTIME
Body: I need you fast asleep by 10:30pm AT THE LATEST. Okay?
Brain: Sure, sure. 10:30pm. Gotcha.

BEDTIME
Body: Okay. Sleepy time. Ya ready?
Brain: *suddenly clicks on after being shut down all day* No. Actually, I just came up with 50 new things to stress and worry about.
Body: But ... I need to sleep.
Brain: Well, too bad.

2 HOURS AFTER BEDTIME
Body: Why am I still awake?
Brain: Because I hate you.

And that, folks, sums up my life.

In other news, I'm working a new part time retail position. I can't say I love it, especially during weekends like this. The store is always crowded, it's stifling hot, I stand on my feet all day, and I have to be nice to everyone no matter what. The latter is what especially drives me crazy -- I won't even type some of the things I've silently said in my head to a few choice jerks who've stepped foot in to my store. I smile and perkily tell everyone to have a great day, but in my brain I might be thinking something quite the opposite.

Then there are days like this one, where I have to haul around a giant bag on the sales floor and pitch it to people. Mind you, these are busy, harassed shoppers who don't want to hear about a bunch of expensive goodies. They'd rather me just shut up and tell them how to get to the exit without getting trampled to death. But nope, I have to sell away, lugging around a heavy bag, showing off its contents like its Blackbeard's pirate booty itself.

(Is this going to get me fired? Oh well.)

Then, of course, there are my co-workers. Some of them are genuinely nice people, but some of them are almost young enough to be my children. (Weird feeling.) I have nothing in common with these people. They worry about boys and freshmen-year-in-college types of things. I worry about graduate school applications and making beautiful music. We speak foreign languages, me and them. But we stand united, under the common goal of earning a shitty paycheck.

Such is life.

Hopefully tonight I will get a good night's rest. I have a long day ahead of me Saturday: a day of work and then several hours of practice/rehearsal afterwards. Here's hoping my brain will actually cut me a break tonight, and let me sleep for once!

some cash would be nice ...

Finding a job in this city is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. To do anything you have to have previous experience -- and I mean a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g. To be a waitress, employers want at least 3 years of restaurant servitude. Dog walkers are required to have previous poop scooping jobs under their belt, not to mention a license (what the hell?) and an apartment in Manhattan. (I guess people don't have dogs in Brooklyn?) Even jobs under the 'adult' section -- which I only go to in moments of desperation to reassure myself that I will never stoop so low -- demand "experienced ladies."

(um, ew.)

I've been on a few job interviews now, and discovered the 'New York Bitch' syndrome, also present on the Upper West Side and art galleries everywhere. This phenomena is found among wealthy, middle aged Caucasian females. They wear well tailored skirt suits, have faces that look like they've been pressed under an iron too long, and a no-nonsense-get-out-of-my-way attitude. Oh, and they love having power over the weakling masses. (In this case, me.)

I seem to warm and butter them up well, but apparently not enough to thaw their frozen insides. They rattle my resume in front of my face, pert and smiling through alligator teeth, letting me know with a well placed glance that my clothes are about $500 too short of being acceptable.

(got Chanel?)

Then again, when I think about it, working for malnourished socialites isn't really my thing. I think it's safe to say that the feeling of dislike between me and the New York Bitches is mutual.

So, here's an open plea to whoever reads this thing. Need an employee? I'm a fast typer, have office assistant and editorial experience, I'm good with computers, a classically trained musician, and what the hell, I'll throw in the fact that I'm pretty cute, too.

In all seriousness, the minute I get a stable job, I'm posting a long, drawn out HALLELUJAH on my blog. My entire post will go like this: HALLELUJAH!HALLELUJAH!HALLELUJAH! Only, instead of three hallelujahs, there will be about a thousand. In addition, there will be a list included of all the wonderful crap I can buy with my first paycheck.

Ah, to have a job!