November 22, 2007

• I met two gypsies at work. Real ones that travel and everything. Unfortunately, they also steal. They have stolen before so I was sent to give them “good customer service” until they left my department. The guy who makes sure people don’t steal (I am sure he has some title) came by my department and picked up my receipts. And read them. They started out something like “Hey God, how are you this morning?” and so he asks me “so, you are pretty religious?” I cringed and said “well, I like to think of it as more of a relationship kind of thing.” he said “that might be pretty hard on your boyfriend.” Hitting on me or not…I had never thought about it like that. It is the common terms now to say “oh, not religion—relationship.” But if you actually think about it…pretty hard on your boyfriend.

  Anyone with a real heavy accent or that speaks another language; I automatically speak in Portuguese with them. Without even thinking. The lady at the Chinese food place looked at me strangely when I said “Obrigada” and I didn’t even notice until I was out the door with my food.

  When I say “I don’t know” it doesn’t normally mean I don’t know, it means wait a minute, I have to think about it…

  I like the US. I like my car. I like my family’s church. I could get used to this…but I want Brasil. Most of the time you only know what you have. I know 2 worlds. And I have my choice of them. How lucky is that! Except not. Because I always know and feel what I am missing know. In hard times I wish for the other. In good times I wonder “what if?” and I feel this huge responsibility to “DON’T MESS UP RACHEL” because I am the only one to blame for a wrong choice. I am the one who has to live with my life. So where does God fit into all of that? Or working at Carson’s? I mean…what do I do during the day…how is the fact that I am a Christian make my life, my job, my day, different?

  I understand Dad now. Coming home and sitting on the couch and just being tired. The sore shoulders that sag a little lower every hour until it is time to leave. The feet that ache until you move them and then they throb. You don’t want to do anything, but you don’t want time to pass because then it will be closer to the time you have to go back to work again. Plans are made for those illusive times called “weekends” or “vacations.”

  I own a space in a parking garage. Normally on the 6^{th floor. Opposite end from the elevators. I’ve bought a piece of suburbia. I have my own parking space. At the end of a long day, when I wonder if this is how everyone feels and who made up the idea of workdays and the irony and bureaucracy of it all. I walk the six blocks with my scarf wrapped around my chin. I push the bottom and solemnly walk into the elevator and ride it up 6 floors. It dings off key as I exit. It is dark outside, and from the 6th floor, the city is lit up in anticipation. For what? Another work day? So this is what it looks like in cold dark places where people get mugged. I like the solitude. The dusk-yet-not-night. My friendly car roars to life and we being the decent, florescent light after florescent light—passing and flickering like another thought of what I forgot to do, have left to do, or should have done. Faster and faster they stripe my eyelids. I slow down for the sharp corner. Dizzy and throbbing, I wait for the blockade to rise. And I have ended another day.}

  Things I like about my job:

  nice people like Joyce who bring me skirts and tell me we get Chic-Fil-A on Friday

  Nice managers named Heather who talks to herself but doesn’t expect me to respond

  Eating lunch at the Arts Garden and watching cars and people and people and cars and lights change

  Writing random notes on receipt paper when I have already stocked, cleaned, sorted, and checked everything and no one is ready to purchase

  Things I do not like:

  Those Bluetooth things. Three way conversations where you do not know when to respond are annoying.

  Christmas music constantly

  Ink tags. They hide in random places on the clothes and then I have to hide random places when the people beep at the door and come marching back to find me

  Achy feet and tired shoulders. Please tell me it gets easier.

  The problem with Christmas is the buildup. So much time is spent hyping it up that even a good Christmas is a letdown. How sad. Not many people pay in cash. I get a little buzz when the cash drawer opens and I get to use actual money. Some people drop hundreds like bagels.

  • 10:34 pm
  • 1 Comment