For the love of Mimie!

I thought I’d share a funny story. The shelter where I work runs like a well oiled machine. We get donations of bread almost daily from Safeway and other bakeries. At times we feel like we are drowning in bread! We put it out on racks for our clients to take freely, but as long as I’ve been there…the racks have never been empty…in fact, at times we don’t have room for all of it. We have two cow farmers who come and pick up the excess bread to feed to their cows. Yeah…who knew cows eat bread?

Several weeks ago was “take your child to work” day, so I took Hannah to the shelter with me. She served food on the line along with the other volunteers, and she got to help her mom make 150 tuna sandwiches.

On this day we had an over abundance of bread, and more coming in. One of my resident staff approached me and asked what we should do with the excess. “We’ll give it to the cows”, I said.

Hannah’s mouth dropped and her eyes became wider than I’ve ever seen them. She took in a sharp breath and said, (in complete and utter shock)…”Mom!! I can’t believe you called the homeless people cows!!!”

The guy from the last post has been removed from the kitchen and into another job at my request.  He continued to make snide little remarks until I finally had to talk to him about it.  That was about a week and a half ago.   He has an enormous chip on his shoulder, and he was determined to make me the enemy.  When they needed to take someone from the kitchen to fill the other position, I asked that they take him.  I was told that I’m not the only one who’s had problems with him and his attitude.

Later in the day he came to the kitchen…his face was beet red…he was either really embarrassed, or incredibly angry.  He had just received the news that he would be moving to the other job.  He said…”I want to apologize to you if I did anything to upset you.  I loved working in the kitchen, and with you.”  The kitchen was full of people, since he chose to approach me right in the middle of lunch and all I could manage to way was, “Ok.”

I wanted to talk to him privately…to explain that in a “real world” job, he wouldn’t have lasted two days if he talked to his supervisor the way he talked to me.  I wanted to ask him the question…”When the director asks me my opinion on who she should take out of the kitchen to fill another position…who should I say?…one of the guys who try really hard and are respectful to me?…or the one who has a chip on his shoulder and is always making passive/aggressive comments to me?”  At any rate, I’m sure he knows the answer to that, but I still feel a sense of guilt over it.  I really and truly want my guys to succeed.  I want to teach them skills to get a job in the real world.  I care for them very much…and when one spits on me (figuratively speaking)…it hurts.

This first part is really just a minor observation…the real kicker is what comes next.

I have an assistant…her name is Holly as well.  It is easy to distinguish her from myself…for one thing she spells her name Holly…I spell mine Holley.  I work Monday though Friday…and she works the weekends.  But the guys I work with take great pleasure in distinguishing me from her by a number of comparisons.  For instance…they may call her #1 (because she was there before me) and me #2.  They call her YOUNG Holly…and me OLD Holley.  They call her little Holly and me big Holley (because I’m heavier than she is)…they think this is great fun…and hey, I can take a joke so I pretend to be offended and then we all laugh.

The guy I wrote about two posts ago named Randy, left the shelter last Sunday.  I had the pleasure of working with him for exactly 6 days…then he left.  They replaced him with a guy who I’m convinced doesn’t like me simply because I’m a woman.  Perhaps he doesn’t like having a woman for a supervisor, I don’t know…I do know that he has a problem with me…but I can’t pinpoint why.  I can say with relative certainty that the people I work with (both staff and residents) like me…a lot…and I like all of them.  I have worked with this guy for exactly 3 days…and he acts as though every word out of my mouth irritates him.

Yesterday he asked me for some aspirin or Tylenol.  He said that his body from his neck down hurt because he isn’t used to standing on his feet all day.  One of the volunteers had given me a bottle of Migraine Excedrin, and told me it was for the guys in the kitchen if they needed it.  So when this guy asked me for some aspirin or Tylenol…I gave him the Migraine Excedrin.  Today he came into my office while I was leaving a message for the other Holly.  After I hung up, he said, “Was that the GOOD Holly?”  (Har har har…yeah, that’s funny, asshole.)   I said, “Yeah…as opposed to me…the BAD Holley?”  He laughed for a moment then proceeded to tell me that “whatever” I gave him for his aches made him fail his UA….(urine analysis drug test).  Then he asked to see the bottle so he could read the ingredients.  I gave him the bottle…(acetaminophen, aspirin, and caffeine).  He told me that his mother gave him some extra strength  Tylenol earlier as well.  This guy is in his 50s so his mother has to be in her 70s…and I found out that she lives in a retirement home.  I’m thinking that she either gave him some sort of pain pill or possibly Tylenol 3 with codeine…but he told the guy (who determines who stays and goes based on sobriety)…that “whatever” I gave him…made him fail his UA.  I’m certain that the poop is about to hit the fan.  I hope his ass gets kicked out.  I hope I don’t get kicked out.  No one ever told me that I couldn’t give out aspirin.  I wish that some of these people would take ownership of their own freakin’ problems for once in their lives instead of blaming EVERYONE ELSE.

Needless to say, I’ll be giving the Excedrin back to the volunteer.  Too bad that the rest of the guys will have to suffer when they have a headache or backache or whatever…because now I have to be a hard ass.

I’m sure that many of you have wondered, “What else can I do with tampons?”  In fact, if you are like me…it’s kept you up on more than one occasion…racking your brain to answer the question.  Well, wonder no more my friends.  Thanks to this website, I now sleep like a baby AND I have tampon crafts adding a touch of class and sophistication to my humble home.

Who knew tampons were so versatile?  Need some stylish earrings to go with that new cocktail dress?  How about some tampon earrings dyed to match that dress?

Is the fall weather getting you down?  Make yourself a bouquet of tampon flowers!  They add a burst of color to any kitchen or coffee table.

For those of you who’ve been wanting to learn a musical instrument…make yourself a tampon pan flute, and impress your friends with some funky dance music at your next party.

For those of you who are hair challenged…how about a tampon toupee?

And for those who find that the old Christmas tree is a bit bare…there’s tampon angels, tampon lights, tree toppers, and bells!  What says MERRY CHRISTMAS DEAR FRIENDS…better than tampon tree decorations.

Of course we can’t leave out our Jewish friends…how about spicing up Hanukkah with a brand new tampon menorah …WICK INCLUDED!

Now gather your children, husbands and friends…and let the fun begin.

“Thanks Tampon Crafts for changing my life!” (Wink)

Parsnip Randy

My new job (Food Coordinator for a homeless shelter) holds so many blessings for me.  Every week I meet new people who’s lives and stories bring such richness to mine.  I’ve met some of the most truly amazing people ever to cross my path, at this shelter.  One such blessing is a man named Randy.  Randy is 41, has long dark hair (that he keeps in a ponytail), dark eyes, a dazzling smile and a personality that won’t quit.  It is my great privilege to work with him three days a week.   His jovial spirit is like a breath of fresh air and his smile brightens the kitchen.

My predecessor was an abrasive, boorish man who yelled and swore at the men daily.  I’ve heard stories from these men (about him) that rile my anger.  He made them feel worthless, and how he managed to keep his job for as long as he did, amazes me.   Once, he became so angry at them for not rotating the bread properly, that he walked into the kitchen…tore it apart in a temper tantrum…then made them go in and put it all back together.  Because of his treatment of them…the kitchen had become a dark place.  Now the kitchen is a place of smiles, and a bit of silliness.  For example…

Our driver’s name is Harry.  Harry is one of my favorite people.  As our driver…he is responsible for picking up donations from stores.  Harry has no judgment when it comes to quantities, and if some place say for example, offers fresh produce…he will pick up a thousand pounds of rutabagas, just because he can.  (LOL)…I’m exaggerating to make a point.  He has trouble distinguishing what a reasonable amount is that we can use before it goes bad…and also choosing vegetables that people will actually eat.

One day he went to get produce from the Stop Hunger Warehouse.  He returned with (no kidding) about 200 pounds of parsnips.  It took hours to prep and slice (in a processor) these parsnips.  We served them with lunch and dinner for three days!  Half of the people wouldn’t even try them.  The next week I was preparing to go to the Oregon Food Bank to get more produce.  I asked Randy if there was anything in particular he wanted me to get.  He smiled that dazzling smile and said, “Oh…we could use a couple hundred pounds of parsnips.”  I laughed and left for the food bank.  Of course there were loads of parsnips there, so I grabbed one.  When I returned to the shelter, I gave the loan parsnip to Randy.  He took a marker and drew hair and a face on it, and proceeded to call it Parsnip Randy.  He carried this thing around being silly for days…and by the next week…Parsnip Randy was dried up and very wrinkled.  Randy began to complain that “Parsnip Randy” was lonely and getting old.  So on my next trip to the food bank…I grabbed another parsnip…a big, long one.  When I got back to the kitchen (Randy was off that day, but came in to eat lunch) I attached a turnip to the top of the parsnip as a head.  I carved a crown out of a carrot and attached it to the turnip head.  I used whole cloves and for eyes…and buttons down the front of the parsnip.  I drew a mouth, and carved a bow tie out of a carrot and attached it to the parsnip.  It made a very handsome and tall companion for “old, dried up Parsnip Randy”.  Old Parsnip Randy was very pleased with young, stud muffin, Parsnip Randy.  Now the two of them live happily together standing in a clear, plastic cup on my desk, with a note attached that says, “Parsnip Randy and umm…”Partner”.

Tuna can massacre

Yesterday our volunteers didn’t show up to make dinner.  I was certain that their being on the calender was a mistake, since this particular group had just volunteered two days before…and I didn’t really expect them to come in.  I was right, but we have to give them a certain amount of time to show up before we start to cook the meal.  An hour and a half before time to serve…three of us started dinner.  This is a rather frantic time, as without the volunteers, there are very few of us in the kitchen.  I started opening cans of tuna to prepare for dinner.  Warning…this is going to be graphic.  My need for attention knows no bounds when it comes sharing what happened next.

One of the tuna cans stayed attached to the can on direct opposite sides after opening it.  For some reason the opener wouldn’t cut the lid on those two sides, leaving me the only option of lifting the lid on one side and pushing the other side down into the can.  I had gloves on, and reached into the can to scrape out the tuna.  As I drew my fingers out, the lid sliced into my middle finger and wedged into it.  Each time I tried to pull my finger out…the lid sliced deeper into it.  My finger was wedged in the can and I couldn’t move it.  When I tried to move the lid…it went deeper.  I started to shake, and didn’t know what to do.  It hurt really bad, and I knew it was only going to get worse before I was freed.  The Orkin man was there spraying for ants, and asking me questions.  I was trying not to panic, and so I calmly said, “I need help”.  He didn’t hear me, and continued to ask questions.  I answered his questions quickly and then said, “I need help…could you please help me?”  He noticed the panic on my face and came to me as I told him what I did.  I couldn’t bring myself to look at my finger, so he held the can and began to move the lid…I could feel it slicing deeper, and finally I said, “You are just going to have to push the lid down on the one side and force the other side out of my finger.  He did it quickly, and the lid (which was buried in my finger at an angle) tore up through the flesh and I was free!  I ran to the sink were blood was rapidly dripping from my finger.  The cut was rather deep and even though I put pressure on it…it wouldn’t stop bleeding.  I saturated a paper towel within minutes.  I was still shaking and knew that I needed help, so I grabbed the first aid kit, and some gloves and headed upstairs to the offices to ask someone to help me bandage my finger.  As I was going through the door, Randy entered the kitchen and asked what was going on.  I told him that I cut myself pretty bad and that I needed someone to help me bandage it.  He literally ran to me saying, “Awww, Holley…let me help you.”  He sat me in a chair, took the first aid kit, found some antibiotic ointment and bandages and fixed me up.  All the while he was working on my wound…he tried to make me laugh…and he did make me laugh.  My finger is still bleeding today…but I think I’ll survive…lol.

I’m glad I know Randy.  I’m glad that I have the privilege of working with such a shiny and beautiful spirit.

I’d like to tell you about a man at work named John. He gave me permission to share his story, although I’ve changed his name out of respect.

This story could also be called, “A man so lost he doesn’t know which way is up”.

John is very small in stature. He is very thin, and short. He looks well beyond his years (he is 46 but looks about 60)…and he is missing a lot of teeth. The teeth he does have are all brown, and his face is deeply wrinkled. And he is a hot-head, meaning that he lets his temper get the better of him sometimes (not ever with me, but with others…and he swears quite a bit).

John was a resident in training (meaning he was training to become a resident staff member), when I started my job as the food coordinator and supervisor. He latched on to me quite quickly. He would leave notes on my desk…notes of gratitude, and although I knew they were written by and were from John…he would always sign the notes from all of the guys in the kitchen. He seemed to follow me everywhere and always wanted to talk to me. He wanted guidance…that’s for certain…not only about his job…but about life in general. He seemed to hang on my every word…as if it were gold or something. I can only guess that no one has taken the time to listen and talk to him in a while.

I go to the food bank at least twice a week for produce and milk…one day John asked if he could go with me, so I let him. It was actually a relief to have someone to help me lug heavy boxes around. You should see me do this by myself…I’m sure it looks quite hilarious. I climb into a big, old truck (that was donated to us), I have to pull the seat all the way forward just to reach the pedals, and oh dear God…the seatbelt makes me want to vomit. It smells like a stinky, sweaty, shirtless man who hasn’t showered in a month had it against his bare skin in 110 degree heat…then the windows were rolled up and it was left to bake in the sun for a few months! No kidding…it literally makes me gag…I should try to bleach it. Anyway, I pull this big truck up to the food bank, get out and begin to lift heavy boxes of produce into the truck. Sometimes I feel like this tiny, little girl doing a job meant for a big man (lol). So having John with me was nice for a change. Although he is very skinny and not much taller than I am…he is chivalrous and insisted on lifting the boxes for me.

One day on the way to the food bank, he began to share a story with me about his ex-wife. He told how she had been having an affair with his best friend for three years and he didn’t know it. One day she left him and he found her at his friend’s house. He pulled a gun on them and held them hostage. He said that the gun didn’t have any bullets, but of course he didn’t tell them that. The SWAT team was called, and the standoff was a huge and scary ordeal…but ended with no one getting hurt. (Strangely, I wasn’t afraid of John, even though he was telling me this.)

He told me that he is an alcoholic but that he had been sober for 3 months. He also told me some humiliating stories from when he was drinking, and the state he found himself in when he came to the shelter the most recent time (this is his third time there).

Driving to the food bank became John’s time to share his life story with me. One day he said, “I’ve got something to tell you. It’s really strange…but it’s true. My mom called last night (she is in Ohio) at 3:00 a.m. I was scared to death that something was wrong…so I kept asking her, ‘What’s wrong, mom?’ She told me that nothing was wrong…that she was very happy. She said that she had just had a dream and in the dream it was like God was telling her that I was going to be okay. She is always worried about me, because I’ve always been in trouble, and she never knows if I’m back on the streets or not. Then she said, ‘I had a dream that you are going to be okay…and also that you have a woman in your life.’ I said to her, ‘Mom, you are crazy…I’m not married and I don’t have a girlfriend…there is no woman in my life.’ And she said, “Yes there is…her name is Holley and she is your mentor.”

John said that the hairs on his neck and arms stood up…and he couldn’t believe what she had just said. He said that he had never mentioned me to her.

Of course I have no idea if this is true or not…but he swears it is.

John was on his way up. The shelter paid for him to get his driver’s license and gave him the driver position, (the driver picks up donations from stores and bakeries). He got his license on Friday and was to start his new job on Monday. Monday morning I showed up for work and was informed that John was no longer a resident or employee of the shelter. Saturday he got drunk, after 3 months of sobriety. They have a zero tolerance policy at the shelter and so he was immediately asked to leave.

I didn’t know where he was, although I was certain that he was back on the streets. I figured he was hungry, and too humiliated to come eat at the shelter. On the third day he showed up and waited outside. He sent someone in to get me, and as I approached him he looked down. He couldn’t bring himself to look me in the eye. I asked if he was okay…and he said that he was. I asked if he had a place to sleep and he told me that he had a sleeping bag. I put my arms around him and held him for a moment and as I did, he began to cry. He then looked me in the eye and said, “I want to apologize as a man for messing up.” He continued to cry and said a total of three times that he wanted to apologize as a man…which I took to mean that his messing up made him feel like less of a man. So I said, “John…everyone messes up. It doesn’t mean you are less of a man…it just means you messed up. In fact, it takes a real man to admit his mistakes and apologize. We all make mistakes…I’ve made dire mistakes in my life. It’s all about learning from them…even if you’ve made the same mistakes many times over…it’s life trying to teach you something. Just pull yourself up and start over. And please get back in the shelter.” (He will not be allowed to be a resident staff member again because this is the third time he has done this very thing, but he can get a bed for the next 30 days.) I asked him to please come in and eat every day. He told me that he was going to his AA sponsor’s house to apologize, but promised that he would come back to eat. He told me that he loved me. I hugged him then he walked away. I haven’t seen him since. I think about him often. I wonder if he’s cold, and hungry, and lonely. I hope he is getting help.

No one told me this job could be so heartbreaking.

(On another note…while I was just re-reading this, I noticed an unusual amount of 3s in the story. John’s wife had been having an affair with his best friend for 3 years. John had been sober for 3 months.  His mom called at 3:00 a.m.  He apologized “as a man” 3 times. I didn’t see him for 3 days. And this is his third time to be kicked out of the shelter for drinking. If anyone knows anything about numerology, and this means anything…I’d be interested to know about it.)

Virtually all of my teenage life (from Jr. High through high school and beyond) my mom and I wore the same size clothes. This suited me very well because she always had very cute clothes and didn’t mind sharing. She wore my clothes as well so we each had double the wardrobe. As an extra special bonus…we also wore the same size shoes! And since we both consider ourselves to be shoe enthusiasts, we always had lots of cute shoes to choose from and share.

She had certain rules when it came to make-up and dating…rules that I place on my children to this day. Back then, I considered these rules to be rather strict compared to the rules my friends had to follow. By today’s standards, they seem downright oppressive, but they served me well, and they will serve my children well. I was not allowed to date until I was 15 and then it had to be a double date. At age 16 I was allowed to go out alone with a guy, but they had to meet him first, (which was rather ridiculous considering I lived in a small town and everyone knew everyone). The only makeup I was allowed to wear until I was 14 was lip gloss.

When I entered high school, she bought me makeup and showed me how to apply it. She has used Clinique for as long as I can remember…but kept me knee deep in “Cover girl” products in effort to keep me out of her makeup. She always had the greatest perfumes…I used the cheaper ones…my favorites being, Love’s Baby Soft, and Jovan Musk for women, but I used hers every chance I got. I also used her razor to shave my legs.

In short…my mom’s room and closet were a teenage girl’s dream come true. I remember looking at her and wanting to dress like her, and wear makeup and perfume, but having to wait patiently to grow into the “magic” age. When I reached the “magic” age, I hit her room like a hurricane. She never seemed to mind sharing anything (except her expensive makeup).

I’ve always thought that the rules I grew up with, were pretty good rules, and planned on using the same rules with my kids. The funny thing is, that my kids don’t seem to be biting at the bit to “grow up” like I was.

The only makeup my daughter is allowed to wear is lip gloss (except during dance performances). She has never even asked to wear any other makeup. I’ve also bought her Love’s baby soft perfume…but she doesn’t use it. She is a total clothes/shoes freak…and I do indulge her a bit too much in that area. But for the most part she just seems to be this content little person.

When my son was younger (now age 20 and in college) I told him that he would be allowed to double date when he was 15 and single date when he was 16. He never even questioned these rules. When he was 17, to my knowledge he had still never been on a date. I walked into his room one night (where he stayed most of the time, playing video games) and said, “Son, you do know that you are allowed to go out on dates, don’t you? Why don’t you go out with Vicky or some of your friends”. He laughed, and I do believe he called some friends and went out. But it was as though it never dawned on him to go out and have fun.

Hannah is never into my stuff, although I’m sure that will change drastically when she is a bit older.

Danny is a different story altogether. When he was two, I walked into my room and he had my lipstick all over him…it was all over his face and head. It was also all over the wall and the carpet. And when I walked in and shrieked in horror at the mess…he simply looked at me and giggled.

In the past few months he has stolen my deodorant, the shaving cream I use for my legs, my hair dryer, and my razor.

This strikes me as very funny. I expected this from my daughter…not my son.

Since beginning my new job I’ve made note of an interesting phenomena.  About 95% of the volunteers are elderly people.  I’d say that close to 50% of the volunteers are like Roy (from my last post), and 50% are self righteous, indignant, bitchy, cantankerous, crotchety old farts whose only reason for volunteering seems to be trying to make last minute arrangements to get into heaven.  They are hateful, bossy, headstrong, stubborn, condescending, oh and did I mention, self righteous?  They order me and my staff around like we are their personal slaves.  They demand things that we don’t have (obviously they don’t understand the concept of a HOMELESS SHELTER…that we operate largely on donations, and a strict budget), and bitch at me for not having it.  And let me be clear here…this homeless shelter serves SUPERB meals.  Every day we serve three meals a day.  During lunch and dinner EVERYDAY we offer a hot entree, (like turkey and stuffing, or homemade beef stew just to mention a couple) a hot vegetable, garlic bread, fresh green salad, fresh fruit salad, and dessert.  And yet, I’m bitched at daily (by the volunteers) because I didn’t have basil for their soup or fresh carrots for the salad.

I’d guess that 98% of the volunteers are from churches and call themselves Christians!  To this I say, “HA, I think you need to check the church manual…I’m betting it’s main message is KINDNESS…not “CAST UPON THE WORLD, YOUR SNOTTY, SUPERIOR, JUDGMENT!”

I actually heard a conversation between about 4 or 5 old men sitting at a table that appalled me.  It went something like this….”The government should outlaw ALL birth control…IT SHOULD BE ILLEGAL TO OBTAIN OR USE.”  This conversation when on for about 10 minutes before they moved on to the evils of Islamic religions.  I was so angry it was all I could do to bite my tongue!  I wanted to walk up to the table…lean into those judgmental bastards and ask if they were prepared to personally care for the millions of unwanted babies sure to be born if the world was ever STUPID enough to follow their advice.  I swear, I wanted to go knock their heads together.  I also can’t imagine how many children each of them must have if they and their wives have NEVER used birth control!

I know how terrible this post sounds…I’m just getting something off my chest.  I still love my job…I love my staff…I love my boss…I love the wonderful, kind and selfless volunteers….but I have a problem with the attitudes of many.  I’m afraid that their last ditch efforts to get into heaven by “serving the poor, lost, homeless people” may be futile.

What?  I’m just sayin’.  (LMAO!)

My neighbor was murdered…
Or so I thought.  A few nights ago I had trouble sleeping so I got up to check my email.  It was about 2:30 in the morning, and as I sat ALONE in the dark, I heard a blood curdling scream.  It came from my neighbor’s house.  No kidding…every teeny, tiny hair on my body stood on end.  I ran to my patio door and opened it and within seconds I heard another scream.  This was no ordinary scream…it was terrifying…and it was coming from a woman.  I ran to wake my husband and as I was telling him what I was hearing…she screamed again.  He jumped from the bed and we both ran to the patio, then called 911.  Tears filled my eyes and I started to cry, wondering if my neighbor was being bludgeoned to death while I stood there and listened.  I wanted to run to her aid, but was afraid of being bludgeoned to death myself, so I sat by the window cursing the police for being so slow.  As it turns out, they weren’t slow, they had parked up the street a ways, and walked up to the house with weapons drawn.  A few minutes later, we saw them retreating so my husband went out to see what was going on.  Apparently our neighbor was having a party and the blood curdling screams stemmed from drunken stupidity.  Meanwhile, I was shaking like a leaf and unable to sleep for hours.

Tipping Keanu
A couple of blocks from my house is a restaurant that I enjoy.  The food is decent, but the VIEW is exceptional.  Last weekend my husband and I ate there.  There was a long wait and so we decided to sit in the bar for a while.  As I have mentioned in the past…a waiter works there who is the spitting image of Keanu Reeves.  He’s even brooding like Keanu seems to be.  I’ve tried flirting with him.  He doesn’t seem to be the flirty type…maybe he’s gay…it’s the only explanation…because NO MAN CAN RESIST MY CHARMS!   (Yeah, yeah…tell youself something long enough and you’ll start to believe it too…lol.)  I made my husband tip him very well simply because he is gorgeous.  Little does this twerp know that he could bleed me dry if he’d only smile and flirt back a bit…sigh…I think I’m losing my touch.

COLD HANDS, WARM GLOVES
My new job position is as the Food Coordinator and supervisor of the kitchen at a homeless shelter.  I can’t tell you how much I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE my new job!  I think it’s the first job I’ve ever been able to say that about.  Consequently,  the plight of the homeless has been on my mind a lot lately.

A few weeks ago some friends and I went to Portland to give away blankets, coats, gloves and socks.  It was freezing the day we went (32 degrees), and snowing.  Huge, wet snowflakes fell from the sky and saturated us within minutes.  I was freezing, and that was a good thing…it gave me a small taste of what some people go through on a daily basis.  We went under the Burnside bridge (it’s not like it sounds…Portland’s public transportation mode…a train called Max, runs under the bridge, and there are buildings and shops all around.  It’s not like we stopped on the turnpike and went under a bridge).   There were a few people huddled together.  Among them was a married couple.  The husband’s name was Mario.  We asked if anyone needed gloves or anything.  The only gloves we had left was a pair of women’s (lavender in color) that came up to about the elbow (yeah, really hokey…but donated, so who are we to say no?).  Mario said, “I’ll take them…I don’t have any gloves.”  A male friend of mine, who was with us, handed him the gloves, and the conversation continued in a different direction.  It took only a second for me to realize what Mario had just said.  HE DIDN’T HAVE ANY GLOVES!  IT WAS 32 DEGREES AND SNOWING!  I immediately pulled off one of my leather gloves and handed it to him.   I asked him to try it on, but he was a gentleman and didn’t want to take my gloves.  I pleaded with him to just try them (assuring him that I have more).  He reluctantly tried to squeeze into them, but they were too small.  At that moment, I’m pretty sure I felt my heart crack right down the middle.  I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Mario with only a thin, hideous pair of purple gloves to wear.  Before Mario could even hand the glove back to me, my friend Kevin had his thick, warm gloves off and gave them to Mario.  Before all was said and done, he also gave Mario his belt.  I’m certainly glad that Mario had on shoes, or I’m pretty sure that my friend would have been walking around barefoot in the snow…lol.  I think about Mario and his wife often.  I hope they find a way off of the streets.

I AM invisible! Hmmm, (rubbing chin thoughtfully, with a furrowed brow) now I must find a way to use my newfound power for good and not evil.

I sent out emails to many of you announcing the spectacular news that I got a wonderful new job.

The place where I have been working for the past 8 1/2 years was a very negative place. I worked with some of the most hateful, hurtful, passive-aggressive gossipmongers I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. These people seemed to thrive on the misery of others. They seemed to take great pleasure in verbal assault. Believe it or not, there are only six of these people in my department (since my openly racist, bitch of a supervisor retired…and caused me to dance around and sing, “Ding dong the bitch is gone” for weeks afterwards) but let me tell you, these six seem to have the power of 100! They spew their venomous words as though they get paid in accordance with the level of hurt they cause. The one who is the worst and the undisputed leader of the Piranha Pool (Sharon), approached me when she found out that I would be leaving. Her words caused me to stare at her in disbelief, unsure of how to respond. Here is what she said…

Sharon: I’m glad that you got a better job. It will be nice to get out of here, (I can’t remember her words exactly, but it was something like) there are too many hurtful and bad things that go on here. You are a nice person, and I’ll miss you.

Me: (Physically lifting my jaw off the floor, and staring at her in disbelief)…”Thank you.” But as I stared at her, I backed away slowly, afraid that the words that had boiled up from the pit of my stomach and now sat on my tongue trying to pry my mouth open, would sprout wings and fly out at her. I wanted to say something like, “You f-ing hypocrite! You know that you are the ringleader in this circus of hate! Someday…you’ll get yours…and you’ll see how it feels to be on the receiving end of toxic venom!”

Yesterday was my last day there. When I work night shifts, there are only two of us…me and a cashier named Nancy. Nancy is retiring in less than three weeks. I bought her a book that she’s been wanting, and gave her a heartfelt card. She bought me a beautiful porcelain angel, and a very sweet card. I received three other cards from people outside of my department. I spent my last night telling those who have been kind to me…just how much it meant to me. I cook for close to 200 people a night (mostly employees from other departments), and out of those there are about ten who always smile and actually talk to me. I took a moment to tell each of them that they made a real difference in my life. I will truly miss them.

Now here is where my power to be invisible comes in. Not one person (besides Nancy) in my department of about 80…gave me even a card. I know that some of you who’ve been reading me for a while may be thinking that I’m not representing myself truthfully here…that I must be some kind of bitch to deserve the treatment I’ve received from these people, and the lack of acknowledgment that I worked side by side with them for the last 8 1/2 years…but I swear it’s not true! I’ve truly tried to make a difference there. I’ve been kind, and helpful…and done what I can to make it a better place…but I obviously failed miserably.

As I left yesterday, I felt numb. I had absolutely no emotion. I was not happy and I was not sad. I didn’t even feel relief. I just felt that it was an end to one chapter of my life.

Now I look forward to the next chapter, and working at a place where I KNOW I can and will make a difference. I was all set to tell you more about my new job…but since this is already very long…I will write about it in a few days.