for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
Our self-appointed chairperson to all things, Ms. All-Star, bypassed me purposely the other day in order to get around the system and get what she wanted in spite of no one else getting it. The details aren't important, but I took a few moments in the kitchen explaining to a coworker (lets call him SuperCalm) that she purposely went to him because she knew she'd get away with it. !!!!!!!!!
It wasn't really a big deal, but any sized situation involving her becomes a small battle for me. She should not get special treatment just because she does a professional job of raking people over the coals.
Anyway, after I'd finished "freaking out," I felt a bit sheepish. "I'm not mad at you, SuperCalm, I'm just mad at her. I...maybe freak out unreasonably whenever she's involved."
Later, we came up with the idea of "Freak Out Points," and how I'd used mine up for the day. They work like PTO.
If you don't use 'em, you lose 'em. They don't roll over from year to year.
Me, I like to use a few Freak Out Points (FOP) every day, saving a few so I have surplus for those days when I do double shifts.
Pretty sure that SuperCalm has rarely used his FOP, but he may have come close to using them this afternoon.
The time: right after serving noon meal.
The place: the kitchen prep counter.
The antagonist: DRAGON LADY, a fellow employee who works in the Special Care Unit.
The situation: a lack of communication from our boss, who is on vacation until Sunday.
So, as I'm washing the lids before heading out for a 15 minute lunch break, I'm unnerved by the sound of enormous wings flapping their way into the kitchen. I turn to see Dragon Lady, smoke and fire trailing from her nostrils, the sound of her footsteps reverberating throughout the building. Dishes on the counter start rattling. The water in the goblets on the dining tables ripples violently. Small creatures in the meadows nearby quiver and hide their beady eyes under their paws.
I mentally cover my face in horror, hoping the wall down the kitchen's center will protect me from her sight and therefore redirect her wrath elsewhere.
It works! But alas, Reader (another coworker) must intercept her and her buckets of rage.
I remain outside the conversation, staying busy with dishes, but overhearing little snippets.
"The way it was told to me was..."
"Nooo. Nooo, nooo, nooo."
"I thought her birthday was on the 28th."
"Yes, but she wants the ice cream on the 27th. I spoke with Manager before she went on vacation." The bite in her voice drips in poison.
SuperCalm steps in, speaking neutrally: "Well, what would you like us to do about it?" He's taking another breath to offer a grocery-store run but never gets a chance.
"BACK OFF, I'M JUST ASKING," says Dragon Lady, at which point SuperCalm steps away and says nothing more. We share glances across the kitchen counter. Dang, lady. "Back off"? Really? And this is a conversation about ice cream and birthdays? Calm the heck down, Ms. Reptilian Dragon Fire Woman!
Even I don't spend Freak Out Points on stuff like that.
After the Dragon Lady has stomped away and the field mice come out from hiding, I turn to SuperCalm. "Ready to spend your Freak Out Points? 'Cause I would be."
But he didn't freak out. He did talk it out over dinner, while we all enjoyed his Cuban Sandwiches (sooo goooood!). He's probably the most emotionally self-controlled of us all. An example, really.
When it was time to leave, Reader and SuperCalm were wishing me good luck for the weekend. I said a grim "thanks," as I'm usually a wreck by the end of a 13.5 hour day. "I've saved up some Freak Out Points for it," I said, to which we all laughed. It's nice we can at least joke about the things that drive us nuts, and store up imaginary "points" for surviving it, too.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Prairie Town Jogging
The crunch of gravel or asphalt underfoot and the sweep of grass swaying in the breeze. Sumac and blazing star lend their color to the green of Minnesota summer.
Wild grapvines cover the roadside ditch in translucent bright green color.
Blazing star rises out of the grass in plumes of bright lilac.
A grove of poplars sway, their leaves rustling and shimmering.
Shade and sun mingle on a Minnesota summer afternoon.
Saturday, August 27, 2016
Episode 5: The Harem
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
Mr. Placemats, as mentioned in an earlier episode, is moving away. He's going back to his house, newly vacated by the previous renter. At breakfast the other day, he was announcing this to the people at his table.
"Oh, where are you moving?"
"Well, to my house," he replied in the most condescending tone imaginable.
Then they told him they would miss him. After he's been so rude?
Then they began asking what he would do about cleaning and cooking and laundry and all the things that are currently done for him by staff.
"I tell ya what, honey, I'm a Big Boy."
"Big Boy" had only minutes earlier asked me to fetch his breakfast for him, though he is fully mobile and was only seated three feet from the breakfast bar.
Later, when a coworker and I stopped for lunch, he came and sat near us to whine about his junk mail.
"My wife died three years ago," he confided, "and they still send me junk mail in her name."
That's sad. I felt a twinge of compassion. Poor guy lost his wife.
Then he told us that his house has three spare bedrooms.
"So I just need to call around and start a harem."
A harem? Like, a group of women to see to his needs? Gag me. What would his wife say? Maybe nothing. She must have been an angel to tolerate his crap.
"They'll cook and clean for me," he declares, in that slurry voice that makes him sound perpetually drunk.
My feminist ire gets up just enough to embolden me. "So what do they get out of the deal?"
"Do you want me to tell you?" he grins.
"No, I don't really want to know," I say, repressing my shudders of disgust until he's gone.
There's not enough money in the world to buy him even one woman with that little self-respect, much less three.
Mr. Placemats, as mentioned in an earlier episode, is moving away. He's going back to his house, newly vacated by the previous renter. At breakfast the other day, he was announcing this to the people at his table.
"Oh, where are you moving?"
"Well, to my house," he replied in the most condescending tone imaginable.
Then they told him they would miss him. After he's been so rude?
Then they began asking what he would do about cleaning and cooking and laundry and all the things that are currently done for him by staff.
"I tell ya what, honey, I'm a Big Boy."
"Big Boy" had only minutes earlier asked me to fetch his breakfast for him, though he is fully mobile and was only seated three feet from the breakfast bar.
Later, when a coworker and I stopped for lunch, he came and sat near us to whine about his junk mail.
"My wife died three years ago," he confided, "and they still send me junk mail in her name."
That's sad. I felt a twinge of compassion. Poor guy lost his wife.
Then he told us that his house has three spare bedrooms.
"So I just need to call around and start a harem."
A harem? Like, a group of women to see to his needs? Gag me. What would his wife say? Maybe nothing. She must have been an angel to tolerate his crap.
"They'll cook and clean for me," he declares, in that slurry voice that makes him sound perpetually drunk.
My feminist ire gets up just enough to embolden me. "So what do they get out of the deal?"
"Do you want me to tell you?" he grins.
"No, I don't really want to know," I say, repressing my shudders of disgust until he's gone.
There's not enough money in the world to buy him even one woman with that little self-respect, much less three.
Friday, August 26, 2016
Episode 4: Cat Therapy
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
It's still dark out when I punch in the entry code at the Memory Care unit. As usual, I've arrived with a cart full of clean dishes and random supplies and ice for the water dispenser. I'm putting away cups when I hear meowing behind me. The unit has had a cat now for a few months, and when it sees the kitchen light on, it comes pattering in, meowing and stretching, rubbing against a chair, begging for affection.
One potential symptom of dementia is paranoia. People get so they think their care providers and children and even spouses are wishing them the worst or waiting for them to die, etc. In a case like that, a person might find they can at least trust an animal if they can't trust people. I suppose that is one specific reason they've chosen to have a cat in Memory Care, outside of the obvious reasons of getting those people to interact with their world and to find healing in the innocent physical contact that happens between owner and pet.
When she comes into the kitchen begging for attention, I can't help but oblige. I meow back until I'm finished putting things away and then give her a good scratch around the ears. Then she flops on her back and stretches, waiting for a pat on the belly and a massage around the jaw. I spend several minutes forgetting that I'm at work, just playing with the cat, listening to her purring. Then I wash my hands and head back the way I came. Sometimes she'll sit with her tail curled around herself and watch me curiously as I leave.
I'm not usually in that unit much longer than it takes to drop off supplies or pick up dishes, so I don't know how much the residents make use of the feline's company, but it certainly is doing me some good. There's something to be said for a little Cat Therapy! It's not a bad way to start the day.
It's still dark out when I punch in the entry code at the Memory Care unit. As usual, I've arrived with a cart full of clean dishes and random supplies and ice for the water dispenser. I'm putting away cups when I hear meowing behind me. The unit has had a cat now for a few months, and when it sees the kitchen light on, it comes pattering in, meowing and stretching, rubbing against a chair, begging for affection.
One potential symptom of dementia is paranoia. People get so they think their care providers and children and even spouses are wishing them the worst or waiting for them to die, etc. In a case like that, a person might find they can at least trust an animal if they can't trust people. I suppose that is one specific reason they've chosen to have a cat in Memory Care, outside of the obvious reasons of getting those people to interact with their world and to find healing in the innocent physical contact that happens between owner and pet.
When she comes into the kitchen begging for attention, I can't help but oblige. I meow back until I'm finished putting things away and then give her a good scratch around the ears. Then she flops on her back and stretches, waiting for a pat on the belly and a massage around the jaw. I spend several minutes forgetting that I'm at work, just playing with the cat, listening to her purring. Then I wash my hands and head back the way I came. Sometimes she'll sit with her tail curled around herself and watch me curiously as I leave.
I'm not usually in that unit much longer than it takes to drop off supplies or pick up dishes, so I don't know how much the residents make use of the feline's company, but it certainly is doing me some good. There's something to be said for a little Cat Therapy! It's not a bad way to start the day.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Episode 3: Exit Mr. Placemats
for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)
Once upon a time at work, we would set out paper placemats at breakfast. On each placemat we would set a paper napkin and our sturdy metal silverware. After each resident ate, the papers would get thrown away. The papers served almost no purpose so it always seemed like such a waste. In the last year, as the budget has been cinched tighter and tighter, our manager decided to begin setting breakfast with a cloth napkin and the metal silverware. No more placemats.
No one seemed to miss them, except one particular gentleman, whose outrage at their disappearance was his topic of conversation for weeks afterward. He would lay out his cloth napkin flat and use it like a placemat. He would even bring in his own paper napkin to compensate for the loss of the cloth napkin's use. One day, several weeks into the change, he made a point of loudly conversing about his method of "coping with the loss of the placemats," stating that without a placemat the silverware is simply too loud when set on the wooden table. Finally, he restated the whole thing directly to me.
"See here, I lay out my napkin flat to use as a placemat," said Mr. Placemats. "Those silverware are just too loud against the table otherwise."
Doing my best to remain professional, I responded with the most blank face I could muster. "That's very inventive of you," I said, managing to be truthful and polite.
"No," was his response as I continued working, clearing the places near him. "It's called making do with what you have."
"Isn't that what inventive means?" I asked, to which he looked a bit dumbfounded.
"Well...I suppose," was all he said before falling silent for once.
Mr. Placemats is probably the most polite name I can give him, as the obsession over placemats is not the only drama in which he stars.
He has loudly proclaimed in the dining room that the French Fries are "horrible...soggy...HORSE SHIT."
He has reamed cleaning staff for throwing out rotten, moldy food from his refrigerator. "I was gonna eat that..."
He has complained about my cooking one day and then approached me the next to say with a glowing face that I always do "such a fine job. You've really outdone yourself today."
He throws his used pads on the floor (not the garbage can) of his apartment as a gift to cleaning staff.
He has made inappropriate comments about the underaged kitchen aides:
"I don't suppose they could take their break on my lap..?"
"No. Then we'd have a problem."
If he makes a demand and meets with any resistance, he begins to manufacture poisonous combinations of insults and cursing, splurting them loudly and repeatedly at the person who has dared draw any kind of line in the sand.
Needless to say, "Mr. Placemats" is not a favorite of staff.
Just yesterday as I was clearing a table, he approached it and said, "Well...she took my napkin...my nice, clean napkin."
I had no patience for this, admittedly. "Oh...life is hard. I'll get you another one."
He then had to wait 60 entire seconds for me to take away the dirty things, bring back a new napkin and silverware, and wipe down the otherwise dirty table. If waiting 60 seconds is your biggest problem, your life is pretty darn good. Just saying.
When I get back to the table, he continues lecturing. "Couldn't you tell by me coming in and getting breakfast and laying out my napkin that I was going to sit there??"
No, honestly I wasn't paying attention to you. I was helping the people who need it and cleaning off this dirty table.
Newsflash: you are not the center of mine or any other universe.
Then today he does a total 180 and approaches me after breakfast, smiling. "My dear," he begins, "I won't be seeing you after awhile."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"Well, I'm going away."
"Oh, like on vacation?"
"No, honey...I'm moving away. This Saturday." Then he explained the details of his move and how he may have to come back to our facility to "say hello" to us. And to me. Really? Lay it on a little thicker, man.
Again, doing my best to be both honest and polite, I say not "we'll miss you," but rather, "good for you."
His response? A glowing smile and a "Thank you, dear."
That man is a puzzle. A coworker of mine told me today that he just does and says what he does to get a reaction. He feeds on the power trip of knowing he's gotten under someone's skin. He's one of those people that other people need protection from. He's one that I have walled away from myself with my blank looks and vague politeness and by letting his words, good and bad, go in one ear and out the other.
So exits Mr. Placemats from our little corner of the working world.
His absence will be felt by every last one of us.
It'll also be followed by champagne.
Once upon a time at work, we would set out paper placemats at breakfast. On each placemat we would set a paper napkin and our sturdy metal silverware. After each resident ate, the papers would get thrown away. The papers served almost no purpose so it always seemed like such a waste. In the last year, as the budget has been cinched tighter and tighter, our manager decided to begin setting breakfast with a cloth napkin and the metal silverware. No more placemats.
No one seemed to miss them, except one particular gentleman, whose outrage at their disappearance was his topic of conversation for weeks afterward. He would lay out his cloth napkin flat and use it like a placemat. He would even bring in his own paper napkin to compensate for the loss of the cloth napkin's use. One day, several weeks into the change, he made a point of loudly conversing about his method of "coping with the loss of the placemats," stating that without a placemat the silverware is simply too loud when set on the wooden table. Finally, he restated the whole thing directly to me.
"See here, I lay out my napkin flat to use as a placemat," said Mr. Placemats. "Those silverware are just too loud against the table otherwise."
Doing my best to remain professional, I responded with the most blank face I could muster. "That's very inventive of you," I said, managing to be truthful and polite.
"No," was his response as I continued working, clearing the places near him. "It's called making do with what you have."
"Isn't that what inventive means?" I asked, to which he looked a bit dumbfounded.
"Well...I suppose," was all he said before falling silent for once.
Mr. Placemats is probably the most polite name I can give him, as the obsession over placemats is not the only drama in which he stars.
He has loudly proclaimed in the dining room that the French Fries are "horrible...soggy...HORSE SHIT."
He has reamed cleaning staff for throwing out rotten, moldy food from his refrigerator. "I was gonna eat that..."
He has complained about my cooking one day and then approached me the next to say with a glowing face that I always do "such a fine job. You've really outdone yourself today."
He throws his used pads on the floor (not the garbage can) of his apartment as a gift to cleaning staff.
He has made inappropriate comments about the underaged kitchen aides:
"I don't suppose they could take their break on my lap..?"
"No. Then we'd have a problem."
If he makes a demand and meets with any resistance, he begins to manufacture poisonous combinations of insults and cursing, splurting them loudly and repeatedly at the person who has dared draw any kind of line in the sand.
Needless to say, "Mr. Placemats" is not a favorite of staff.
Just yesterday as I was clearing a table, he approached it and said, "Well...she took my napkin...my nice, clean napkin."
I had no patience for this, admittedly. "Oh...life is hard. I'll get you another one."
He then had to wait 60 entire seconds for me to take away the dirty things, bring back a new napkin and silverware, and wipe down the otherwise dirty table. If waiting 60 seconds is your biggest problem, your life is pretty darn good. Just saying.
When I get back to the table, he continues lecturing. "Couldn't you tell by me coming in and getting breakfast and laying out my napkin that I was going to sit there??"
No, honestly I wasn't paying attention to you. I was helping the people who need it and cleaning off this dirty table.
Newsflash: you are not the center of mine or any other universe.
Then today he does a total 180 and approaches me after breakfast, smiling. "My dear," he begins, "I won't be seeing you after awhile."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"Well, I'm going away."
"Oh, like on vacation?"
"No, honey...I'm moving away. This Saturday." Then he explained the details of his move and how he may have to come back to our facility to "say hello" to us. And to me. Really? Lay it on a little thicker, man.
Again, doing my best to be both honest and polite, I say not "we'll miss you," but rather, "good for you."
His response? A glowing smile and a "Thank you, dear."
That man is a puzzle. A coworker of mine told me today that he just does and says what he does to get a reaction. He feeds on the power trip of knowing he's gotten under someone's skin. He's one of those people that other people need protection from. He's one that I have walled away from myself with my blank looks and vague politeness and by letting his words, good and bad, go in one ear and out the other.
So exits Mr. Placemats from our little corner of the working world.
His absence will be felt by every last one of us.
It'll also be followed by champagne.
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