No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service...

Last week I was all alone in the apartment as the man was away for the week.

Normally, I'm okay with being alone, but that particular week it seemed as though I couldn't get my bearings.

Prime and best example of this? Read on...

I was getting ready to go to work on Wednesday and when I woke up, started going through the usual routine of my preparation for the work day. I got up, hopped in the shower, made my lunch, fed the cat, cleaned the litter box, dried and straightened my hair, and ironed my shirt.

There's always lots to do in the short hour between wake up and departure, but I always manage to get it done.

I puttered around the house in my wife-beater while I gathered my belongings; cigarettes, wallet, purse, and the bag which carried all my goodies for the work day: book, notebook, good pen, and goodies.

Once I had completed all of my tasks, I set about putting on my jacket, grabbed my keys, rubbed Jack's belly and slid into my flip flops.

I arrive at work, turn on the lights, music, and front window display, and prepare to run down the hall to grab my staple breakfast of Pepsi and an A&W Ham and Egger.

I pop outside for a quick smoke before work, chat with some of the other poor slags that have to work too, and go in to start my open.

I clock in, stash my bags in the back, and take off my coat.

Alas, I am not wearing a shirt.

WTF?

How did I forget my shirt you ask? I have no flippin' clue. At all.

I went to work in my wife-beater. Nothing more.

Feck. What do I do now?

What any other retard who forgot to wear a shirt to work would do of course; I bought a pyjama top and put that on.

I repeat...

FECK.

Grubby Grab

If you're an avid reader, I'm sure you've noticed that work for me is rarely uneventful. It may be quiet, but it's NEVER boring.

There's always some fool you can make fun of as he/she walks by with a mullet, or wearing spandex and sandals with socks.

On what can only be called a "Special Day" last week, I was working away, minding my own business (as per usual) when a regular customer walked in. I walked over to begin the long task of helping her (She is a handful) when I noticed that unbeknownst to me, she had brought her young son.

Now, I normally enjoy children. Alot.

Not this child. At all.

He was, I'm sure, grown from the demon seed and has quite obviously grown into the devil incarnate in his short 4 and a half years.

So, I'm helping his mother, walking them both around the store, showing her the usual. Pyjamas, nighties, and the like, when demon-child starts to bounce around like a friggin' ball.

I'm serious, he wouldn't stand still. He was bouncing around, bobbing and weaving through racks, rolling on the floor, and jumping on the counter.

This, in the first 4 minutes of their arrival.

So, mom goes into the changeroom, and starts putting on her stuff. All the while, I can hear spawn chattering away.

They come out so ma can model her pj's (like I give a shit) and spawn starts running again. Ma wants a set of pj's that are on the wall, so I grab my trusty long hook and attempt to get them down with little to no effort.

That is, until spawn comes over.

He asks if I can show him how to use the hook. I oblige. Only because I think it may get them out of the store quickly.

Not so.

Mom and spawn are tottering around the store looking at more things, when spawn grabs the hook, runs over to his own wall, and attempts to take down some bras.

I am, at this point, cringing, as would you, I promise. I am envisioning things flying off the walls, landing on the floor, and being left there for me to fix. I pray that this doesn't happen.

To my dismay, it doesn't.

What does happen however, is that Ma needs another pair of pj's. They've been here for approximately a half hour at this point.

I grab the hook, spawn follows. I think he's merely going to help me get the pj's down.

Not so much.

Instead, I am mid-reach, aiming for the pj's, while spawn is also in mid-reach.

For my boob.

That's right. My right boob.

It was also very clearly it was pre-meditated, as it was not his arm that brushed up against my boob, or his hand reaching for the pole while grazing a little boob edge.

It was a full-on, reach up, open handed, boob squeeze.

I didn't know what to do. What does one do when the spawn of Satan grabs one of your mammaries? I felt like I needed a shower.

Do I tell his mother? (Who, by the way, is completely oblivious.) Do I grab spawn, put him in a headlock and throw down?

I didn't know.

So, instead, I grabbed the pj's, gave them to Ma, threw the kid an evil look, and walked away.

I did however contemplate asking spawn out for dinner afterwards.

Is that wrong?

I'll get you good....

Twas a quiet day at work the other day, so when it came time to go for a break, I was good and ready.

I took my first break at around 2:30 that afternoon and proceeded to go about my usual routine. I went to my favorite sitting spot, opened my book, and lit my smoke.

As I'm relaxing, I notice the resident crazy (We'll call him RC for short) sitting on the bench by the wall, mumbling, and staring off into space.

I promptly finish my break, which takes about 15 minutes, and as I'm going back into the mall, I notice that RC is still sitting there.

I work for a couple more hours, and then a few of the girls from other stores come recruit me for another break.

Three of us proceed outside and sit in my favorite spot. RC is still sitting on the bench, either keeping it warm or holding it up. At this point, I'm not sure.

So, we proceed with our smoke, we're chatting away, discussing the events of the day, when we're off, the usual.

All of a sudden, RC, who has been silent up until this point, bolts up from the bench, grabs his bags, and runs half way into the parking lot.

This is the part of the blog, where, if you must use the washroom, go now.

So, we're sitting there, all alerted to the fact that RC has run into the middle of the parking lot, and wondering what the hell is going on.

All of a sudden, RC starts shaking his fist in the air.

We snicker.

Then, out of nowhere, RC yells:

"FUCK YOU!!! I'll get you next time you cocksucker!!"

All three of us look at the others, wonder who is going to lose it first, and all burst out laughing together. At this point, we're not sure who or what RC is yelling at, and we're all a little scared of him at the same time, so we stifle our laughter quickly. We're not sure if when he notices we're laughing at him if he'll:

A) Come over and beat us up
B) Come over and talk to us
C) Come ask for smokes
D) All of the above

Instead, he saunters back to the bench, hoists his bags beside him, and settles back in.

We're not entirely sure if he was shaking his fist at the fact that a bus left, presumably without him on it, the air, which is entirely possible, or at something completely different.

I guess we'll never know.

But, it was still the laugh of the day.

And the next day.

And the day after that.

The Girl in the Bubble

So, the man says I should be in a bubble.

All the time.

I am starting to think he's right. Let's see; I'm always sick, sore, and/or sick AND sore. I fall alot, bang into things, walk into walls, and roll my ankles.

Bubble? Starting to look promising.

Picture this: I was leaving for work on Tuesday morning. It was raining. Heavily. My back stairs are slimy.

(I attribute this to the fact that when the stairs were newly built, they were not treated with any sort of stain or whatever else it is that you put on new stairs when built.)

Soooo.... I'm carefully descending the staircase while holding on to the side rail, my pants (so I don't get too wet at the bottoms), and bags. I am thinking the whole time that I am going to go tits up down the entire flight.

Lo and Behold, I make it to the bottom in one piece and relatively dry to boot.

This success was short lived.

Once I get to the safety of the landing, in what seems like it can only be occurring in slow motion, one foot crosses behind the other, causing the foot in the front to kick forward. I see my purse gliding to the left, my lunch/carry-all bag soaring to the right, and my arms looking for something other than air to grab ahold of.

No such luck.

I hear a muffled snap (my spine I believe), as my upper body twisted in such a way I never thought possible, a whoooshing sound, (my body in flight), and a sort of "Shucking" sound. (The rest of me sliding along the slime covered landing)

Imagine a newborn giraffe.

Limbs, neck, wierd noises. The whole nine yards.

I didn't fall per se, I more like caught my body, mid-air from crumpling into a heap on the stairway.

It was certainly a close call. I was able to regain my composure before walking around the building to go to my car.

I was also able to hide this hilarity from the man who was looking out the window on the other side of the building. He was none the wiser to my close-call.

The only side effect of the complete disarray that my poor body was in?

Bad back and lack of bending skills for the better part of the day.

Who needs to bend anyway?