I Hate Spring

Spring has always been portrayed as this bright happy time in which flowers pop up out of the thin layer of snow and birds sing and the sun shines. When someone says spring you think of Easter and warmer weather and puddles. Rubber boots and bike rides and sweaters. Pastel colours, primary colours, bright colours. Thinking of spring leads you to think of summer and thus spring seems more delightful then it, in fact, is.

Spring is terrible.

In spring, all the snow melts. Sure the weather warms up and we find ourselves longing to go outside, but when the snow melts, do you know what you find? All the garbage people tossed in the snow throughout the winter, soggy and moldy scattered all across your front lawn. Mittens that had been misplaced, crusted with dirt. Pressed down, dead and brown, grass. Gravel and dust and dirt, everywhere!

The roads are disgusting and potholes appear. In trying to avoid the tire-consuming holes, you accidentally splash a pedestrian walking too close to the road. They of course get your liscence plate number. If you are the pedestrian, you must constantly widely skirt any puddles if you don't want to be covered in mud when you arrive at your destination. Flip flops are desired, but impractical. They collect the gravel laid down in the winter. One must almost just walk around in rubber boots, but how comfortable is that?

The warm weather calls to you but the parks are muddy and slushy and icky. Not to mention covered in soggy garbage and crusty mittens. It looks just like your front lawn, now, who wants to play on that? You pull your bike out, but forget it isn't summer just yet. You now have a nice dirt streak all up your back. You pull out your roller blades or scooter or skateboard and find the gravel makes it hard to get anywhere, not to mention avoiding the puddles.

Spring is a deciever. You want summer. You want summer weather and summer activities. You're tired of winter. You're tired of white and you're tired of cold. Just because spring alleviates your winter depression, doesn't make it wonderful. It precedes the wonder that is summer. Summer I like. Summer I enjoy. In summer I can roll down a green grassy hill and not land in a puddle at the bottom. Sure it rains in summer and who doesn't like a little puddle splashing, but in summer it's actually water and not mud.

I understand you cannot simply skip from winter to summer, although I wish you could. But please, stop saying spring is so wonderful. It's not.

I hate Spring.

Chickens Are Assholes

I've recently started chicken picking. This involves driving to a barn with (usually) five other people and the forklift driver. Once you arrive at the farm, you all change into the rattiest clothes you have (I obtained these from the ever faithful Value Village), strap a mask on your face and enter the barn. As you do so you are instantly hit with a wall of ammonia. Lovely, right? I think it's just delicious.

What you see is basically a white, feathered floor. Chickens as far as the eye can see. There's the occasional squawk, a feathered eruption from somewhere in the barn, quiet clucking. To start out you grab their feet. Now they don't usually know what's going on so they sort of let you. As I have small hands (although I've been told over and over this isn't an excuse) I can only grab six chickens. Sista does eight. She says she can do fifteen, and I've heard stories of a guy who can pick up 27 chickens at a time. (I believe that to be a rumor, told to newcomers to make them feel pathetic...)

Now, chicken legs are bony. They are bone. Have you ever seen a chicken leg? Not the most pleasent thing to have wedged inbetween my bony fingers. As I've got my six, I stand up. The chickens choose this moment to realize they may actually be in trouble, as if someone grabbed their legs all the time, but eventually let them go. So they flap their wings and peck and squawk and have a little freak out. If they're big chickens, this poses a problem and I must attempt to get them in the drawers whilst they're flapping about. In their little freak out, they'll probably have pooped on my arm, or my hand or my face. And if they get their chance, they peck at me too.

Once in the drawer, I turn to grab my next six. Now, some cheeky little chicken who really hates my guts decides it won't stay in the drawer. It wants freedom. Freedom being a muggy, dusty barn with 23,000 other chickens. It hops out just as I turn around. Or not. Assuming I see it jump out, I sigh in frustration and lean down to grab that one little chicken. As it just found 'freedom' it flaps even harder the second time and I have to shove it in that drawer. If I don't see it jump out, then that little chicken has just thrown the count of my drawer off and become a stray. Way to go.

Picking up chickens is hard work. Getting them into drawers is hard work. Shaking the drawers to get the chickens to the back so you can fit more in is hard work. Chicken picking is hard work. As we finish and I chug all the water I can without taking a breath, I feel a sense of accomplishment in an empty barn. Then I start to change out of my smelly, poop covered clothes and discover an assortment of bleeding scratches all over my legs. Huge bruises in random spots. My ring won't fit because my poor fingers are swollen.

Chickens are assholes. They couldn't just hop in the drawers? I mean, come on. This job is hard enough, why do they have to flap around and freak out, making it harder? Why must they peck and scratch and squawk? Mind you, if you were throwing me in a drawer to be sent to my death, I'd do that too. I'd bite you and hit you and claw you and kick you. Not sure if I'd degrade myself to pooping on you, but I'd probably come close. I'd do whatever I could to get out of there. So, I suppose, if I were a chicken, I'd be an asshole too.

A Sea of Things I Hate

About my job, just to clarify.

I hate sitting in a chair all day that I swear leans slightly forwards, making it hard to stay on.
I hate staring at a computer screen for eight hours.
I hate that the only colour of pens we can use are blue, red and black.
I hate that I keep running out of big paper clips, and the supply bin is constantly out.
I hate being put on switchboard and still being expected to get my usual amount of work done.
I hate when I'm asking a question and as I'm asking I realize the rather obvious answer.
I hate the soapy way the bathroom smells.
I hate office gossip. Seriously. Leave the poor woman's balding head alone.
I hate how the IT guys just always seem like they're having a party in their shared room.
I hate how small my cubicle is.
I hate how square my cubicle is.
I hate taking notes, and I hate how I don't.
I hate how I always lose my sticky notes under the piles of things on my desk right when I need them the most.
I hate forgetting to bring a granola bar when my stomach decides to eat itself.
I hate wearing heels, and forgetting to bring other shoes just in case I remember I hate wearing heels.
I hate how huge our rates binders are.
I hate how right when I pull the last file out of the bin, and then look back at the absolute perfectness of a beautiful bin, and underwriter walks past and casually drops thirty more folders in.
I hate that brokers don't know what they're doing. I mean, don't they have to be certified to do this? Who's teaching this class?
I hate when my last battery for my mp3 dies and I'm stuck with the sounds of typing, sneezing, coughing, talking and the furnace. Occasionally the printer. Drives me mad.
I hate when I'm too tired to focus, or too awake to stay still.
I hate when I forget that caffiene makes me jittery, and buy the tall pumpkin spice frapuccino blended coffee.
I hate that I can't hum, or sing to my music, cause it's distracting to other people.
I hate when other people hum or sing to their music, cause it's distracting.
I hate when I need to locate a file, and it's been misfiled.
I hate how repetitive data entry is.
I hate when a broker faxes something to you and all the words form one black blot and you can't read anything.
I hate when the broker decides to practice doctor writing on the form. Seriously. I'm not a pharmacist.
I hate when the broker decides I can guess what the postal code is. Or the street name. Or even the location.
I hate when half the office leaves at 4, and I'm stuck here 'til 4:30.
I hate when the claims department recieves a cake, and leaves it on the desk next to mine with the lid off. As the smell wafts around the office, they make sure we all know it's only for the claims department.
I hate when I'm pulling mail and the person who sent the nice sheetly of paper just happened to forget the policy number, so I have to guess which policy it's for.
I hate that everyone in the office seems to be freezing so they turn up the heat and then I simply melt.
I hate that the only freezing cold corner in the building is where all the folders are kept.
I hate that I only get every third friday off.
I hate that I can't wear jeans to work.

I love the moment that I step out the door, into the fresh cold air, and forget about work. Until tomorrow.

rainy days

With the onslaught of rain comes the onslaught of people who do not want to get out of their vehicles.  Or rather, there are just more of these people when it's raining than when it isn't.  Though there are still people who do not want to get out of their vehicles no matter what the weather.  I would like to clear up a common misconception.  I do not get paid MORE because I work at a full serve gas station. I am paid the exact same minimum wage as the guy working in the dry and warm self serve gas station.  I have worked both full and self serve at Shell so can I honestly assure you, it is the exact same pay.  It is the same pay in winter as in summer, whether it is raining, sleeting, snowing, hailing, shining or so windy I'm walking sideways.  The wonderful thing about it is that YOU do not pay more for all of this extra service.  If the gas at the full serve station is 127.9, then it is 127.9 at the self serve, except there you have to pump your own gas and wash your own windows and check your own tire pressure and washer fluid and oil level.  Sometimes I think people must truly believe I am a trained mechanic (which I am not) as they ask me to check all the dipsticks their car possesses or help them find the lever that opens their hood or advise them on which oil to use or what pressure their tires should be at.  They seem surprised when I tell them the only thing I was taught when I was given the job was how to check oil (not even change it; usually only the lifers know that...).  This, by the way, is not influenced by the fact that I am a girl.  In my time at gas stations I have taught many a boy how to check the oil or wash windows or even how to properly pump gas.  A lot of people just don't know. 

If you are handicapped, injured, old or have small children, I will gladly run your cards in for you.  I will print out the reciept, take it back outside for you to sign and then run the receipt and the clipboard inside before returning out to finish the other vehicles whose owners are standing inside waiting patiently.  Since you don't have to come in or wait in line and the employee who is inside is probably helping someone else, you will get to bud in front of the line. I will run your cards through the other till in my hurry to get back outside to finish all the other cars.  You will leave, then, having never left your vehicle, never getting wet if it is raining, or cold if it is winter.  If, however, you are simply lazy, and expect for some CONFOUNDING reason that full serve means I will bow low and drag my face in the dirt to make sure you are comfortable and happy, then you were sorely misinformed.  I know a man who calls it "butler service" and goes on a ten minute cursing rage behind your back before he calmly returns with your reciept.  I know a man who doesn't mind if it means he gets to hit on such a goodlooking gal.  If you are the only vehicle out there and the weather's nice, really, we don't mind.  If there are five other cars, we're running as fast as we can and there is rather inclement weather, you can guarantee you're getting a dirty look behind your back.

If you thought I get paid more for working at a full serve gas station, you were wrong.  It is my job, but so is what you tip a waitress for.  It is the waiter/waitress's JOB to give you good service, and you tip, OH how you tip: ten, twelve, fifteen percent!!  You are already paying for the food, as you are already paying for the gas.  The waiter/waitress is already being paid a base amount, though it is normally more than my minimum wage and yet you tip that waiter/waitress.  It is common courtesy, is it not?  You are kind and thankful and hopefully not rude, depending on how kind and courteous and hopefully not rude your server was.  Why then, do you give them an extra amount than they are already paid?  It is not the law, it is not automatically added on, and your server is not paid more than the cook in the back who MADE your food.  (Disclaimer: this depends on the restaurant but is general a good example for the point I am making.  Not trying to make, because I believe this point is made.  I am also not saying waitresses should not be tipped, only that they get paid a little extra from you to do their job, and I do not, no matter how much extra I do for you.)

If you are one of the people who tend to hand the pump attendant your credit card, I just wanted to let you know that you are lazier than most eighty year olds.  I see little old ladies slowly making their way inside, or someone with a very prounounced limp or several small children.  People I would gladly run cards in for and yet the majority of people who don't want to get out of the car are my age or my mother's age.  They are simply lazy.  I could go on and tell you about the men a full foot taller than me who stand there and watch as I stand on my tip toes to try to wash the window of their monstrously large truck.  I could recall conversations, where someone comments on how hard it's pouring or how low the temperature is or how wet I am or how cold I look and then hand me their cards from the warmth of their dry vehicle.  I'm not even going to start on the people who come up to the till talking on their phone or bluetooth, acting like I was the one who interrupted their conversation as they don't even give me the time of day. I could tell you how people blame ME for the high price of gas, or if the machine doesn't work or if there are no special airmiles promotions on at the moment, but really, in the end, it's a dog eat dog world.  In the end, when I am dripping more water than the sky is and you are completely dry, it doesn't really matter anyways.  It's not like I'll get any wetter and besides, it's my job, and you expect it.