mainsqueeze's Diaryland
Diary
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Solid as a Rock
Well, I made it throught New Year's Eve. Barely. I arrived to work at 3pm, walked/jogged/ran the length of the casino (and it's a BIG FUCKING CASINO) about 50 times, plated for a banquet of 2500, served approximately 400 cups of coffee, and finally dragged my bruised, beaten, worn-out body out the door at nearly 4am. There seems to be this trend at my casino where managers get some twisted satisfaction out of working insanely looooooong hours and then bragging about it. My 13 hour shift is nothing compared to my co-worker's 16 hour shift, which is nothing compared to our boss's 19 hour shift, which pales in comparison to my operations manager's 36 hours. Now, this guy is so intense he casually mentioned bringing a COT into his office so he could take cat naps during slower periods. Ummm... yeahhhh. I think most people who aren't complete masochists would agree that if you don't have that fabled perfect job, the one where you look forward to going to work and feel "fulfilled," and "inspired," and all that shit (which I surely do NOT) then even a couple hours can feel insufferably long on bad days. So, no, I do not want to stay at work for 20 hours or 30 hours or 40 hours just so I can walk around telling everybody about it and acting smugly superior. You know how long I want to work? Eight hours. I'd be happy with nine. I currently work ten hour shifts, which my fellow managers like to scoff at because even though they too are only scheduled for ten hours, THEY just HAVE to stay for fifteen and sixteen hours 'cause heaven knows the WHOLE DAMN CASINO would just fall apart without them. Several months back Dan and I were talking about the various ways that large corporations brainwash their employees, creating intense bonds and feelings of obligation to bosses, et cetera, and I'm pretty sure that this is one of those instances. I can just picture a bunch of suits in an upper management training course with a perky hr trainer in front of them, instructing them to always exaggerate their hours when in the presence of mere room managers and assistants. But yeah, I made it. And I sure as hell made sure to exaggerate MY hours the next day (I worked FIFTEEN HOURS!!Yeah right) lest I be preceived as lazy. Which I am, but that's neither here nor there.
Hey, speaking of laziness, guess who just woke up at 3pm? ME, that's who! The apartment is a fucking wreck because I have been to tired from the insanity at work to clean. We haven't been grocery shopping in two weeks, which means that we are now starting to move through the two-year old canned goods and dusty boxes of noodles that moved with me from the half-house eleven months ago. Yuck. I'm sure you all give a shit about this, too, doncha?
In more dramatic, miserable news: Gavin, my Mom's abusive, drunken, homeless ass-licking fucker of an ex, was Mom's choice of a New Years Day companion. Yay, Mom, way to make good choices! Anyhow, this all culminated in my sister calling me at 1am because Drunky McDrunkerton was at Mom's house, passed out IN MOM'S BED. Gross, gross, gross. This is the man who 86'd me from Thanksgiving dinner, who told my sister and I we were "burdens on our Mother," when I was 19 and Lise was 9. This is the man who said TO MY MOTHER'S NIECE that she was "so gross that I can't even get a hard-on." Yeah. My Mom still has some lingering traces of battered woman syndrome, because when I called her to say, hey, what the fuck ma? she said, "I love him, and he will always be in my life." He has "changed." He was "an asshole back then, but HE'S CHANGED!" My sister called me because she was so uncomfortable she wanted me to come pick her up. My Mom, goddamn it, I love my Mom SO MUCH but she makes these woefully awful decisions regarding men. She feels so lonely that she goes back to the one sure bet over and over just for some ego-strokery, for a temporary fix to the way she feels. And I have felt that, often, but you know what, I don't have respect for that. I lost respect for myself when I did it and I sure as hell lost respect for my Mother when she brought a drunk, mean, lying man who devastated her family years ago into the home she shares with her 14 year old daughter just so she could feel okay for a few hours. Her favorite argument is, "I'm a fifty-one year old woman, I can do what I want," and it strikes me as terrifying that I actually have to REMIND HER that she is setting an example for her teenaged daughter, who, at the time when I actually DID remind her, was sobbing in her room with the door locked because this prick was curled up warm and cozy in the bedroom next door. Whatever, Ma. You're a grown woman. Do what you want. And yet, in spite of the fact that you are so very capable of making good decisions and setting a solid example for your child, I will still be here for you to call when you are at the end of your rope and can't handle the results of the those decisions manifested in your emotional, hormonal kid.
Now that I have vented, I am going to drag my lazy, unwashed ass into the shower and go shopping. Cheers, kids.
3:05 p.m. - 2008-01-02
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