Work Appropriate Knockers

I no longer own a bra that does not showcase my boobs. It’s just a fact. Also, all my shirts are of the V-neck/scoop neck variety because they flatter my shape. This causes a problem when the work dress code is, “If you think you look good, put on something frumpy.”

Since my job is in a call center, we can wear jeans and tee’s with sneakers without a problem. Which kind of sucks since I’ve been waiting for a work clothes shopping trip since the third grade, and now they tell me that pinstripe slacks and blazers are no longer needed? I call shenanigans! But the point is that I refuse to wear anything with writing on it to work. I have a similar shoes rule; if there’s tread with a logo in it, not cool for work.

It’s these damn boobs that keep tripping me up. Or smothering me, as the case may be. Or weighing me down, or chocking me up, etc. There are lots of directional jokes available when it comes to boobs. Maybe that’s why boys like them. Jokes are easily made about them. But I digress….

No matter the camisole, tank top, or cardigan the fun bags continue to make their presence known. I should just have my aunt crochet me a bib and call it a day.  There’s no such thing as work appropriate knockers.


Sob Story

I am the only person I know who can go from laugh-till-you-cry to out-and-out-hysterical-sobbing. It’s a gift. A horrible, horrible gift that you wish you could return but your Great Aunt Sally expects to see you in the two times a year you go visit her. So in the back of the closet it sits until you notice that Easter is next week so you drag it out, dust it off, and hang it up in your closet so it will smell like the rest of your clothes and not moth balls when you shlep to Sally’s sometime between the egg hunt and the ham lunch.
Yeah, it’s like that.
Everything starts innocently enough. A board game, a comedy club, a tickle fight; these are all times when I have ended up on the floor crying like Intern Lucy was just stabbed on ER all over again. Once I reach the point where I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe, all bets are off. There are 4 steps:
  1. While gasping for breath the corners of my mouth might down turn. Now my muscles are in on it and the cry face has been established.
  2. The timber of my voice could slip down an octave and sound like a guttural moan. Or, it could shoot up an octave, making the sound of a high pitched shriek. At this point my ears are confused.
  3. The shaking that goes along with a belly laugh is the same as the heaving intakes of air. The similar body movements are enough to make my brain take off in the dark direction.
  4. One thought will set me off. The tickle fight; “I really missed Jason this week. I’m so glad he’s home. What would I do without him?” The board game; “This is great. Mom, Grandma, and I are having so much fun. I’m going to miss this when she’s gone. After that, Mom will die too. Oh Jesus!” The comedy club;…um….. I may have been a little drunk.
Jason hates this particular trait. It brings good times to a crashing halt.
“Hahahahahaha….hey, what are you doing?”
“(sniffing) Nothing.”
“Are you okay?”
“(wailing) No!”
“Aw, are you crying?”
“(hysterical sobs)”
“Yeah…you’re crying. Come here…(wraps in hug).”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I spent my Friday night. Don’t tell Aunt Sally, I was supposed to go over and look at her pictures of funny hats and tombstones she might like.

Absence Makes the Heart Whiny and Demanding.

I have not posted in ages because I have not been able to drag myself off the couch and out of the ennui coma.

I haven’t seen Jason in 3 days.

His work schedule has decided to be the most inconvenient thing ever. He has school (that started on Monday) every Tuesday and Thursday all day. His job, scheduled him to start work those days a good hour and a half before he gets out. Not to mention the two daytime shifts he they gave him. All together he works 38 hours this week. He’s only supposed to be getting between 15 and 25.

What this all means is that my mom has been taking me too work and picking me up. I see Jason long enough to say “Bye babe, I’m leaving.”, exchange an “I love you” and hit the road. When I get home, he’s gone and the it’s just me and Kirby.

Yesterday I snapped. I had things to say and I needed a hug god dammit! I called Jason on my break and wailed “I do not like this! I miss you! Work is stupid! Waaaaaah!”

Then I felt slightly better. Things go back to normal at home next week. Work however, is never normal and we’ve got some big stuff coming up.

Working Girl

Working full time is not hard. It stresses me out less than school.
Work doesn’t follow me home every night.
Work doesn’t drive me to pop Xanax like skittles.
People at work aren’t drunk morons. If they are, they have the decency to keep it under wraps.
However, work does…..
Riddle me with guilt……
Poor Kirby. My baby. He misses his momma. The 1st day I was gone he stress ate an entire rawhide.
The entire week he mopped and refused to play with Jason. Every morning, when I called him to go outside, he would slowly amble down the hall and begrudgingly sit while I leashed him. I’m two weeks in, and he has finally started to perk up. But at night, while I read my book in bed when he slowly lowers his head and slumps into my chest, I could just cry.
Scare my inner control freak…
Jason is a man. With man parts and a mans mentality. Which means that barbecue sauce is a permanent feature on the outside of the microwave. Ramen noodle bits and juice  stain the coffee table and computer desk. When I’m home my eagle eyes can spot the blemish and attack it, or at least ask Jason to fix it.
On Wednesday, Jason announced his breakfast plans.
“Bacon lattice”
“A what?!”
“Oh jesus, what is that.”
“It’s bacon.  Woven into a brick. Baked. Then eaten. It’s goint to be awesome.”.
Thats when the anal retentive elf that lives behind my tonsils sprang out and demanded to know:
-this will happen while I’m at work, right?
-you’re not going to fry it are you?
-you’ll use the ugly silver cake pan and tripple coat it with tin foil. right?
Once satisfied, it retreated back to is lair in the back of my throat.
At work, a panic fairy floated into my brain and screamed, “Bacon grease! Everywhere! On the floor, on the cabinets, on the dog. Not that he wouldn’t like that but still… call home! Call home now!”
It then floated away like nothing happened.
(Oh, by the way, Panic fairy is almost never wrong. Bacon grease did appear on the floor. Jason is banned from the kitchen until further notice. )
Make me happy….
In a training group of ten people, there is only one guy. Half of the women have kids and half of those are divorced. The girl I was best friends with in junior high just happens to be in the same class as me. Another girl, Rachel, is in my similar boat; job safer than a degree, planning to go back eventually. The class trainers are funny and encouraging. All the supervisors are happy and The feeling I get when I badge in and walk through the cache of revolving doors is somewhere between “Gattaca” and “The Wizard of Oz”. Daunting, exhilarating, challenging.
I love it.
Also, the class trainer brought in dilly bars. Hell yeah.

A butterscotch Dilly bar? Heaven.

The Current Situation

It does not take a genius to understand why I moved out. However, I also transfered back home to community college. I was out of the thick of it, but still close enough to keep tabs.

Mom kept her faith in her marriage and kept on me to forgive and forget.

“He misses his daughter.” (Mallory wasn’t speaking to him at the time because he supposedly refused to pay for college).

“His life hasn’t been easy.” (Cry me a river. My father told me he doesn’t love me. Deal with it).

“He’s a alcoholic. He can’t control himself when he drinks.” (Go to AA. Go to rehab. You have options.)

“It’s hard on him being laid off.” (He was laid off once, then again, and now, after a year of unemployment has a new gig. Bad luck, or something more?)

And so it went. Mom played middle man while nothing really changed. I just wasn’t aware of how bad things were and how bad they would get over the next few years.

There continued to be scuffles. I still felt majorly uncomfortable with his helping me in any way. He continued to get frustrated at me and bring it mom. When his daughter came back into his life, the pressure was off me. She got married and gained two stepsons. I will say that the best part about him around was 18 month old Xander, the cutest, blondest baby I have ever seen. There was a point when Joe and I could be in the same room and the overwhelming urge to bolt, cry, or spit in his face did not overtake me.

Until May of this year. Jason asked me to marry him on the 16th. We invited ourselves to dinner that night so I could tell mom in person. 30 minutes after we shared the news, Joe began a tirade about marriage and how men get the short end of the stick. How women (namely his ex) were selfish and unfeeling. How he did everything he could and how it was never enough. How that would be us. Just wait.

It only got worse. He started calling out my mother on Facebook, a place where  my entire family and all of my mothers work friends could be the audience. People got so fed up they were defending her and essentially sparking a Facebook war in the comments. It broke my heart and infuriated me. Finally, mom asked me to show her how to block him. When he was hired by a large company in town he deleted it and has yet to start another one. Her friends came to me, telling me to convince her to leave him, get a restraining order, file for divorce. I guess they thought that she would listen to her daughter, another victim of his insanity, and take me seriously. Jason and I told her how worried we were. She told us that she was strong enough to handle it.

From there, the truth, my mothers truth, came pouring out. During their first year of marriage, he drank to the point that he would not remember which dogs he had let outside. More than once in the dead of winter did my mother get up for a head count. Every time, there was a dog outside in the freezing weather. It’s a miracle that none of the Bostons died with their lack of body fat and fur.

The second year, when Mallory came back and got married, he started fights with his ex to the point that Mallory was hesitant to invite him to the ceremony at all. Mom, the peacekeeper that she is, calmed him enough that he went.

After he was laid off the first time he spent his time drinking. When he got another job as a maintenance manager at an apartment complex, the drinking continued. AA and Al-non meetings and literature did nothing. Mom, having told us that she liked going out on emergency calls with him, was really going because he was too drunk to drive himself. That job canned him too and he stayed jobless for almost a year. He spent his time drinking and text fighting mom while she was at work or at friends houses.

Recently, his daughter jumped ship again and asked him not to contact her. He disowned his brother, bought a Rat Terrier puppy they named Abby (reason being that his dog Zoe, the fat one, doesn’t love him anymore and likes mom better). He refuses to take his meds, stop drinking, or see his counselor. Jason took over mowing for them this summer and Joe is more often than not drunk on the deck reaching for his fifth cold one before noon.

Mom’s motto this summer has been, “Something drastic will have to change soon.”

Soon can’t come soon enough.

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