Okay, so I've already been punished for my blogging, but this is nuts. I have to keep writing.
When I was unceremoniously "fired", which was not the word used because lawyers, I had an AMOUNT of money suddenly taken from me. Without due process. Also a lawyer who wanted me to sue. And because I was laboring under the delusion of Not Poking the Bear, and lawyers have an agenda,I did not sue or in any way fight back. After talking with Jim, we believed that it would just blow over if I stayed "under the radar." Or "taking the high road."
It seemed to be the human response. And it was one we made, as a couple. I am not mad at anyone but myself.
It seemed to be the human response. And it was one we made, as a couple. I am not mad at anyone but myself.
And it did not work, I lost everything, anyway.
Due to that choice, I have been scrambling to make up the salary difference every year. And due to the depression and anxiety the choice has caused, I dropped the ball and cost myself a summer gig. You are now caught up.
See "The Time Depression Cost Me A Gig" if you're interested.
And here we are, a lost gig and a need to make up the money so our family can survive.
I am a 53 year old debenched (dethroned?) theatre (disgraced?)teacher (disrespected)who relies on the kindness of theatre camps to survive. I blew one of those camps, because after three years, I finally couldn't hold on any more. Depression is real, and if my leg was broken you'd have sympathy, but it isn't so you don't.
I am a 53 year old teacher on "ShittyJobsIndeed.Com" trying to make up the difference.
Nobody is interested.
So my husband's company graciously agreed to let me come work bitch in their warehouse.
This is that story.
9 am, I arrive with my husband at the warehouse. He is the Comptroller for a company that deals in soaps and shampoos for resorts. They have a warehouse where they create, manufacture and ship various smelly things for resorts.
Many of these people are lovely people I have met at Christmas parties over the years. They think it's neat that I'm a teacher, weirdly. They think it's a viable career. I get there and talk to R-----, "Quality Control". I've met him, he's awesome. He's 51, in a band and moves at the speed of global warming: nothing ruffles him. He is playing his guitar in his cubicle when I arrive.
We traverse the warehouse as he looks for the sunscreen that is a mistake (I thought I was there to sort bad soap, but who cares), talks to young men wielding forklifts like I've never seen-- they turn corners--and other such interactions that don't seem to involve me. I get antsy, because I am product orientated, and I'm just standing there. He tells me stories of sunscreen, and reef safe, and mistakes, none of which I understand, but I receive because he's a guy who Actually Cares About His Job. Finally he is able to move around 34 boxes of sunscreen (24 individually wrapped bottles per box) that are wrong, somehow, and that I must empty into a vat, throwing out the plastic bottles because they are now contaminated, but I must save the sunscreen. OK. Immmma theatre kid, give me direction.
He pulled a large barrel that had a plastic bag containing the last round of sunscreen. I thought there should be something to anchor the plastic, because the weight of the sunscreen would pull it down, but...not my circus, not my monkeys. I'm just there to do what I'm told. No judgment, no opinions, just a pay check. So, he walks me thorough my routine for the next eight hours: open the box of 24 individually packaged and wrapped sunscreen bottles, pop the caps, throw them in the trash. Empty the contents into the barrel, throw away the bottle. Easy peasy, right?
Except that 53 year old kryssi has arthritis, and back trouble and and and and and....twisting off the caps became an issue after one box. So I adapted, R--- left his knife, so I used the knobby part to pop off the lids.Because my thumbs began to seize and freeze. No probs, thanks for the knife!
Then the plastic bag begins to sink, as gravity is the law. I cannot find R---, so I grab a forklift kid who looks spookily like one of my former students to ask if he has a clamp to set the plastic around the bin. This is not his department, but he knows who to send me to. I talk to B----, who is the guy who bought my motorcycle and is the boss. He has an assistant, Br---who is more than willing to come trouble shoot. After a brief conference at the bin to determine that in fact, the plastic is being pulled down by the sunscreen, Br---runs off to find a clamp. He returns without one, and instead looks at the barrel and summizes that the original metal clamp that adhered to the circumference of the bin to keep the lid on, might work to keep the plastic in place.
I can't believe I didn't think of it. I tell him he's a genius. I swear he blushes.
At 10.30 R---- comes to tell me it's break time. Cool. A break? Jim brought me what he calls my "Space Food Yogurt" and we chatted a bit in his office. He tried to talk me into the Roach Coach Croissant, but it's not that I'm racist against Roach Coach, but I'm Keto, so I am racist against croissants. But I appreciate both his an R's desire to encourage me. I'm fine, I go back to work.
A lovely young man brings a mat for me to stand on, as I am ELDERLY, and while I "stand" all day at school, I don't stand in ONE PLACE for eight hours. That's a lot, but I found myself being grateful for yoga last night.
The first hour and half were rough, still tired, finding my groove , etc. After the break I found myself splooging sunscreen into the barrel double fisted, in patterns. and tapping the sides to a beat in my head- "He Had It Coming" from Chicago, I dunno why. It morphed into "Nowadays" and my mind wandering to Fosse/Verdon. And how much Fosse (the real Fosse and Sam Rockwell) resemble my beloved high school theatre teacher, who had the sense to not insult the principal and lose his job, and how did I get here? David Byrne asked in his big suit. So at 12.30 is lunch, but Harper was late arriving to "take" us, so I worked until 1. The warehouse cleared out by 12.35, lunch means, lunch, and these people take it seriously.
I went to lunch with Jim,and Harp who came out to join us. She's going to start a program to become a pharmacy tech, as she's concluded massage is not a full time gig for her. G texts about progress toward moving out of Durango and her dead end preschool job and back to Denver to pursue her bliss.
After lunch I returned. Machines, light chatting, the beep of the forklifts. I am unnerved by how nice everyone here is. The young man who seems to be an assistant manger of some kind in the warehouse reminds me of several students I have had over the years. He is kind, he cares that I am comfortable and is also carrying some newfound authority that he relishes but shows no ego, he just takes pride. The actual manager is the guy who bought Shoniqua from me after I wrecked her and has given her a great and loving new home. Everyone's just doing their job. This place is shockingly free of agendas
I am aware that I clearly do not belong here. I am the wrong age, gender and color in the first place. In fact, I was the only white woman in the warehouse. The others all work up front.
I wasn't feeling particularly bored or anything. I was becoming a bit concerned about my hands seizing up, they left me a knife. I have proven I can't even be trusted with a paper cutter, let alone a Swiss Army Knife. Not only am I using the blade to cut the box, I'm using the side tool to pop the caps. My joints are seizing up every few minutes, but it's not painful, it just is. So it was weird that I wasn't bored, or grumpy, or even uncomfortable, but I was counting the minutes, as school is out at 3.31pm and my body is acclimated to function from 6.45 am- 3.31 pm, and be engaged from 8.30am-3.31pm , so I'm done with my day by 3, intellectually,but at the warehouse I have two hours left. That was quite a run on wasn't it?
Bathroom break. I run across the owner's daughter, a lovely young woman about Harper's age who is working in the front office, I suspect she will take over the family business. Her sister has recently graduated from college and is traversing Europe. They are fortunate. I wonder if they are aware of that?
I schlep back to my station and count the empty boxes and do some math. I've managed to get through 13 boxes of 24 units each out of 34 boxes. Nobody to compare myself with as I'm the only one on this task, so Immmma take that as a win: I'm The Best.
Likely that is slow, but slooshing the sunscreen OUT of the bottle is time consuming, even if it's double fisted. Just saying. It's not my age, or the mileage. It's that warehouse work functions on a different timeline than teaching. Nobody's in a hurry here, and they just do what needs to be done until it's done.
All in all to sum up: This is just a skeleton. Nobody here is grumpy. Nobody is bitching about the boss or their job and they all appear to be happy.
Scene.
