Somehow 36 people read this blog today. Now, I know that I posted the link in a couple places and I figured a few might mosey on over and take a peek but I never expected 36 to. I’m rather chuffed with myself really. I think this is at least eighty percent down to the power of Fleur-de-Lis Camp. I really have never come across any group quite so supportive of one another before. I am sure they exist, out there swimming in the ether, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be astounded by the one I am a part of.
Obviously, I spoke about feeling inadequate stacked against the vast numbers of accomplishments encountered on my camping jaunt last weekend, and that may have a small part in some of the feedback I received, but I also know that doing something, anything really, will get the attention of that group of women spread across the world and they will always think I am just a little bit better than I am. And really, that’s completely brilliant.
On the other end of the spectrum, more troubles at the Job. I wont name any names, but let’s say I work at a rather high profile Fabric and Craft store chain based in Hudson, Ohio that features a woman’s name who I am fairly sure does not own the company, if she ever did. I work in the Receiving department. Translation: Once a week the truck comes in, I unload it, sort the things to go onto the floor (superhumanly fast and without any splinters, mind), and then put them on the floor. This is not a difficult job, really trained monkeys could probably do it, and apparently the quality of the work is not the problem, the problem (and I assure you the corporation has one, daily and with very little respect) is the speed with which we are apparently not doing the work. This results in frequent threats along the lines of “If you can’t get it done faster than we’ll find someone who will.’ Bottom line is, no they wont. What they will get is a bunch of new employees who are slower because they don’t know where everything goes. This will not be their fault, everyone needs to learn, but once they do learn they probably still wont go fast enough and this proverbial cycle will start over again. I am sick of being threatened. I am sick of being blamed. I know it’s a part of being a part of the lower echelons, a symptom of peonage, but it’s disheartening, it’s insulting, and it sure as hell does not make me want to kick my superhuman sorting skills up a notch, if that were even possible.
That’s in general. Today it was announced that we are literally competing with each other for hours. As it is, I am lucky if I get ten a week. They’ve cut Receiving hours back to fifty a week, thirty seven point five of which need to go to the receiving manager. Do we see a problem here? Apparently not if you’re corporate for an Un-named Fabric and Craft store based in Hudson, Ohio. The rest of the hours are going to Top Stockers, who will be doing said Top Stocking at four in the morning. I don’t even know whether to hope they ask me to do it some day or pray that they don’t. All I know is that I’ve started looking around for Hiring signs again. Not that I ever really stopped.
They are completely illogical. I can understand that ED might be a very serious problem to some people, but seriously now; what is with the bathtubs? Now, I understand that bathtubs and be sexy, and maybe baths in random places can be sexy, but in there I can not seem to ignore the logistics. These bathtubs are clearly not hooked up to running water given their apparently movable status and location in the middle of a field or the beach or… wherever they are likely to put them next. So, how do they get filled. I’ll tell you how. The only way that makes any sort of sense is that they carried out buckets and filled those things one at a time. Somehow this feels like it would put me out of the mood. I mean really, maybe a bath is just what you’d need after hauling dozens of water buckets into the middle of nowhere but it sure as heck wouldn’t make me want to have sex. I don’t know, maybe they have servants.
This also goes for the Viagra commercial where the older and obviously distinguished gentleman takes the little blue pill and he and his (presumed) wife proceed to throw all their stuff outside into the yard, before dancing for awhile. Unlike Cialis, this is obviously logical. I mean… I know I can’t get in the mood if I am distracted by my magazines and golf clubs. Viagra’s not just for logistics anymore, it’s a mood enhancer, fuck SSRIs.
The Arby’s Wedding.
I hate weddings. I hate pretty much everything about them. I am not opposed to marriage per se but I have always considered it at least a tiny bit unnecessary. I realize this is because I am obscenely cynical and have a statistical issue with love. There are six billion people on this planet. Of that; 2,414,578,548 are under the age of twenty, and nearly half of the remaining adults are of the same sex (1.014 men to every woman to be exact). What are the chances that of all the remaining people throughout the world you are going to find the one you’re ‘supposed’ to be with. Maybe there’s thousands, maybe some arbitrary choice that was made at some point; choosing the right restaurant, registering for the right class, well send you in the right direction to one of those thousands. Maybe if you’d gone into a different class you would’ve met another. Maybe they’re both right. Maybe somewhere in a parallel universe you choose differently and you’re just as happy with someone else. Maybe there is fate, some sort of cosmic design that I never believed in. But, more practically, what if there isn’t? Love is statistically ridiculous.
But of course, statistically ridiculous doesn’t count for much when you’ve picked the right class, gone into the right restaurant and met someone you think you have a very good chance of living with amicably and know you’re going to love for the rest of your life. Then you do what society tells you to do. You make it official, you get married, which is where we began on this tangent. Weddings are horribly pretentious.
You spend thousands on a venue, catering, flowers, cake, decorations, booze (Unless you’re cheap and have a pay bar. Note: Do not have a pay bar, free booze is the only reason half your guests are showing up, true story.), and clothing. Oh the clothing. Bridesmaid dresses, enough said. And all that is besides the gifts. They’re never cheap and they are never things anyone really needs. Registering is probably a hoot and a half, but buying them… not so much. It’s not cheap, it’s not easy, and in the end is it really going to be the ‘perfect day’ that you imagine? Probably not. In fact, if it is, it means that everyone around you is likely in an immense amount of pain and just wishes you’d shove off on the honeymoon already so they could go get trashed and sleep with the closest person who shows any sort of interest. The pain can be explain two ways; jealously and annoyance. Really the best thing that can be said about the traditional wedding is that in the end everyone emerged generally unscathed.
This is not to say all weddings are awful, of course. You can be in the rare few. My best friends K and J for example, their wedding was brilliant. It also involved alcohol, too much grenadine, room for a dance floor, and some great tunes. The way she said it; they aren’t religious and they’re not showy, it all came down to the party. And it was fun.
So, in my quest to come up with the most unpretentious wedding known to man I announced, in a fit of eye rolling at another wedding which I was being forced to attend, that if I ever got married I was getting married in an Arby’s. Now hold on a moment, let me explain. The name of my blog is Eating Fast Food Alone in the Car, a name I said I’d call my memoirs after a particularly bleak Valentine’s Day (my loathing of this holiday comes second only to my loathing of weddings, really) where I wore my usual black, went to the movies alone, and ate McDonald’s alone in my car. All and all, the perfect day. But really, is there anything more pathetic than packing down a Quarter Pounder with cheese in the parking lot of a cinema with no one, no music, no book, and the windows fogging up from your steaming burger? I didn’t think so. Overall, there isn’t really anything more pathetic than fast food, really. Be it McDonald’s or Burger King, Wendy’s or that eternal underdog; Arby’s. So yeah, getting married at Arby’s is pretty pathetic, but out of all the places in all the world to tie the knot it’s got to be about the least ostentatious.
The invitations will be glossy postcards, sporting pictures of us (me and the crazy person who agrees to marry me at Arby’s) with Arby’s cowboy hats floating above our heads. The nuptials will be held at the counter, they’ll likely be short, I’ll say something cheesy about how my life wouldn’t be complete without my intended and attempt very hard not to roll my eyes, and he’ll probably do the same (I mean, come on, he is marrying me). All basic wedding things will be dispatched with, rings, kiss, yada yada. Then everyone will chow down on roast beef sandwiches, curly fries, and jalapeno poppers for the vegetarians. Dancing and booze will clearly be involved, though where the dance floor is I am unsure, it might have to spill into the parking lot. We’ll drink, get drunk, dance our asses off, and then call it a night. Slice of pie (as opposed, of course, to piece of cake).
This is obviously a source of amusement to people. My jaded cynicism is probably hilarious if you’re not directly involved. Maybe it still is if you’re not, I’m a little unsure of this. All I know is that while at the previously recorded camp reunion a few of my ex-campers (now counselors, proving once again that I am old) presented me with an award; ‘Most Likely to Propose Over a Roast Beef Sandwich’. Thanks LLBL and THBL. To that I say simply: I hate Arby’s roast beef, chicken is the only way to go, but the sentiment is still the same.